


Snake in the Grass

by jellybeanforest



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempted Murder, Betrayal, Bisexuality, Canonical Child Abuse, Closure, Current Starmora, F/M, Fingering, First Love, Flashbacks, Found Family, Honeypot, Hunting, Jealousy, M/M, Meeting the ex, NOT a love triangle, Norse Mythology - Freeform, Past Thorquill, Rarepair, Slight Canon Divergence, Switching, Thief/Mark to Lovers to Almost Friends, Thor is Loki's brother, Threats of Cannibalism, Yondad, and Peter is a motherless orphan, and no one fucks with Thor except Loki, frigga is a good mother, guardians as family, terrible fathers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-11-16 06:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18089537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: When the Guardians run into Peter’s ex from a prior honeypot con-job (quite literally), Peter hopes the man isn’t too angry about how he swindled him out of both his heart and his father’s treasure all those years ago. Fortunately, Thor doesn’t seem to remember him, which is both a relief and an annoyance. It had been years after all, and Peter did give him a fake name, so Thor is probably not out for revenge, or so he hopes.But when the smooth bastard fails to move on after (mostly) recovering and instead insinuates himself seamlessly into the Guardians through an almost artless charm, Peter begins to suspect he’s being replaced.(Or: Peter hits his ex with his ship, and it only goes downhill from there.)





	1. Hello Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think that every Midgardian Thor has ever dated has hit him with a vehicle at some point. Maybe the next time one of them does it, he’ll take it as a flirtation.
> 
> The “Present Day” scenes are set between Thor waking up on the Benatar and leaving to Nivadellir. In this fic, there’s about 2-3 days between the two events. The flashbacks intercut between the present day scenes are set eighteen years earlier when Peter is nineteen and Thor looks more or less the same age as he’s always been (equivalent to an early-thirties adult). I would tag age-difference, but Thor is at least 1450 years older than anyone in the MCU (besides other Asgardians). I also want to be very clear: about 80% of this story is past Thorquill (the rise and demise of their relationship), but the present day pairing is Starmora. Thor and Peter do NOT end up together romantically. So, if you’re cool with that, then proceed.

_It’s a massacre,_ Peter thinks grimly as he watches motionless bodies float in the void amidst the debris of a large capsized passenger vessel backlit red by the light of a dying star. They are beyond help, beyond rescue.

No possibility of survivors.

No chance of getting paid.

Lost in the horror of present circumstance, Peter fails to avoid the body speeding towards their ship, smacking directly into the front of the Benatar and splaying across the windshield.

“Whooooa!” Rocket exclaims, eyes pinched, face turned away from the scene and waving his paws. “Wipers! Wipers! Get it off!”

Peter can only stare into the dead man’s face in wonder and abject horror.

_It can’t be…_

The man opens his good eye to stare directly into the cockpit at his team, at Peter. The Guardians gasp in surprise that he’s still alive, but Peter gasps for an altogether different reason.

_Fuck._

Even battle-scarred, with shorn hair and one functional eye like his legendary father, Peter would recognize Thor Odinson, Prince of Asgard, anywhere.

After all, a man never forgets his first love.

 

* * *

 

**Eighteen Years Prior**

“C’mon, Yondu. I can do it; I’m ready,” Peter insists, keeping step with Yondu’s long strides towards captain’s quarters at the end of particularly long shift. At age nineteen, he had grown into his full height though he had yet to fill out. The Eclector’s dire financial straits hadn’t helped in that regard, either.

Yondu remains steadfast in his resolve. “Ain’t no one ready fer a bonafide suicide mission into an Asgardian vault. Security’s too tight. They’ll sniff out an intruder in five minutes flat, an’ that goes double fer Ravagers, those hoity-toity assholes.”

“God forbid we waste money on a bar of soap–”

“I don’t need no lip from you, Quill,” he reprimands Peter. “Any sneak-thief worth his salt needs to know when the cut ain’t worth the risk. We’re passin’ on this one.”

Though present circumstances are more desperate than usual, Yondu hadn’t survived to the ripe old age of forty by running headlong into the thick of just any situation without first calculating the risk – the Terran’s presence at his side notwithstanding. He had already crunched the numbers and knew the job was unlikely to pan out, even without throwing an under-experienced Peter Quill into the mix.

“We’re running low on rations and fuel, and nothing remotely as lucrative has crossed your desk in months,” the boy needles him.

That detail catches Yondu’s attention, who stops his forward progress to face his young protégé. “Who told chu that?”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s true, isn’t it?”

Yondu growls in irritation, steepling fingers to his temple as he feels the light throbbing of a Quill-induced tension headache coming on. Lovely.

“You don’t worry about the functionin’ an’ outfittin’ of the Eclector. That’s the Cap’n’s job, an’ I already delegated _that_ to the Quartermaster. It’s tight, but we’ll be fine,” he tries to assure Peter as he resumes his march towards his rooms and a well-deserved drink from his dwindling private stash.

Unfortunately, Peter is persistent. “If you’re going to eat me when we run low, then yeah, it’s my business. We’re already functioning on half-rations, and Cook has been staring at me a little bit longer than I’m entirely comfortable with. So, let me help out this time.”

“I said no, Quill. An’ Cook won’t do shit without my say-so, an’ I didn’t say-so.”

“But you will if we don’t get back in the black soon enough,” he reasons, missing the way Yondu stiffens and shifts his gaze down and away from the boy. “I’m dead either way, but at least with the vault, I’ll be able to prove I’m a valuable earner and maybe work myself off a future menu when we find ourselves in another lean stretch.”

Peter knows he’s gone too far when Yondu slams him against the hull of the ship, his shoulder pinched tight in Yondu’s strong grasp and burning eyes boring into him from below. Yondu takes a deep breath before ultimately taking a step back and letting him go.

“…Git back to yer post. The answer’s still no,” he says gruffly, continuing on his way.

Peter wisely chooses not to follow, instead shaking out the ache in his shoulder as he watches his mentor leave.

 _You don’t have to go soft on me for my meat to still taste tender,_ he wants to say, but he bites his tongue on the snarky reply. Yondu didn’t need a reminder of how delicious he might be, just in case the man wearied of having to bore yet another notch on the thin side of his tightening belt.

Perhaps Yondu could afford to ignore the grumbling of discontented bellies and longing, hungry stares turned in Peter’s direction. It’s not like a captain cared whether the resident cabin boy was carved up into salt-meat rations so long as his orders weren’t explicitly disobeyed. He might even turn a blind eye if Peter went missing – _the lad must have ran away again,_ he imagines Braddock saying – while their larder mysteriously filled, if only incrementally so. Personal enrichment and survival at any cost is the Ravager way, and Peter occupies the lowest rung of their society, having consistently racked up the least earnings on low-risk, low-yield missions.

It just isn’t fair. Yondu never lets him do _anything_. It’s no small wonder the crew saw him as the most expendable among their number.

Yondu might not have any faith in Peter’s abilities, but he’ll show him. He’ll show all of them that he is not the weakest link.

He pulls out the personal holo-pad he had palmed from Yondu’s inside jacket pocket in their short scuffle, clicking through a list of prospective jobs until he finds the target. Above a set of coordinates is a short description:

_Serpent Tooth. Royal Vault. Asgard. Two million credits._

Tapping on the listing, he clicks to confirm Yondu’s acceptance of the mission.

 

* * *

 

It’s only three days later, standing within the legendary Asgardian Royal Vault, having not so much as touched one of the scythe-like teeth of the large serpent skull much less pried one off, that Peter thinks he may have made a slight miscalculation.

He ducks behind a display case, narrowly avoiding the fiery blast shot from the enchanted armor’s helmet.

His contact hadn’t said anything about a guard dog, much less an insanely-overpowered suit of armor. But then again, he hadn’t mentioned how disorienting teleportation would be either, but here he was.

He stands to return fire, but the plasma blasts have little effect, harmlessly glancing off the articulated metal suit, only serving to interrupt its aim. Peter dives behind a crate just as another blast comes barreling his way.

There’s no way he’s defeating this thing, not on his own with his current weapons tech. The only solution is retreat and survival. He spots another suit of armor on display and speeds towards it, lifting its large shield for cover just as another blast engulfs him. The shield heats up to blazing hot temperatures he can feel through both the insulated lining as well as the leather sleeve of his jacket. Still, he remains unharmed. Hurrying along, he makes it to the entrance to the vault. Unsurprisingly, it’s locked. Peter frantically pounds on the door as he hears the heavy clacking of the enchanted armor's approach.

He braces himself for the shield to be wretched from his grip when the door opens and he falls through to the other side.

His relief is short-lived as he tips his head back to stare at four Asgardians warriors.

“Identify yourself,” a handsome Asgardian with a pointed goatee and impeccably-groomed blond hair orders, a notched arrow aimed at his head.

Flipping over to rise to bended knee, Peter holds up his hands in the universal signal of surrender as a grim-faced Vanir steps forward to relieve him of his blasters and supply bag strapped over his shoulder, roughly stripping them from his person and patting him down to make sure none remain. Satisfied he collected everything, the man steps back a ways to examine his possessions.

“Pray tell, from what realm do you hail, and how did you manage to bypass the BiFrost to gain access to Asgard much less the Royal Vault?” a female Asgardian further inquires, sword drawn and at the ready. She’s tall and lean, her delicate features set in an expression of hard determination.

Normally, Peter’s gaze would be immediately drawn to her, if not for the final member of their number: a large red-headed giant, almost as wide as he is tall, his frame densely packed muscles. Peter nervously eyes the heavy axe balanced almost effortlessly across the man’s broad shoulders.

“I was just passing through and got lost,” he lies. He’s no snitch, but he couldn’t answer them even if he had been inclined to. The wizard who contacted Yondu and arranged instantaneous passage into Asgard had been adamant that Peter not see his face nor know his name, transporting him within the vault itself shortly after Peter agreed to terms. He had hoped the job would be quick and profitable enough to soothe Yondu’s anger in the wake of his (temporary) defection, but that ship had long sailed.

The Vanir cuts open his bag–

“Dude! There’s a zipper for a reason!”

–spilling out half a dozen controlled explosives, a handheld drill, and other light tools needed for breaking into a high-security vault as well as a small hoard of ration bars.

“Um… Would you believe I was on my way to a forestry convention for high-tech lumberjacks and got very VERY lost?” Peter tries, but the Warriors Three and Lady Sif remain unconvinced.

 

* * *

 

After a tough interrogation, a beaten and chained Peter is dragged before the Allfather, Odin, King of Asgard, for sentencing. Odin’s two sons, Thor and Loki, stand off to one side, observing the proceedings.

“The intruder is Midgardian, a fragile, short-lived race,” Lady Sif declares.

“Though this one is a bit hardier than I remember them being a millennium ago,” Hogun says, face set in a permanent scowl Peter had diagnosed as a serious case of _resting bitch face_. The Vanir had not been pleased when the boy had voiced his ill-advised opinion. “He calls himself Michael Night. I can only assume he is a bastard with no father to claim him, a child whose heritage is shrouded in darkness.”

“Hey! No need to get persona– Ooof!” Turning his head to one side, Peter brings his handcuffed arms up to massage the sore spot where Hogun had (lightly) cuffed him for speaking out of turn. Again.

“He also never stays silent when the situation calls for it,” the handsome one, Fandral, adds. “He lacks a filter between his mouth and what little brain he possesses.”

Peter grumbles, but manages to stay mostly quiet in protest of the man’s completely unfair assessment.

“And he’s only half-grown as well. He ate an entire day’s worth of meals in one sitting,” the ginger giant, Volstagg, sounds both impressed and put-out. “I am surprised he has not taken ill.”

“Well, _sor-ry_ , I guess it _has_ been a while since I had a decent meal,” Peter breaks his two-minute silence, patting the stomach protruding slightly from his thin frame. He can’t really complain. He’d had it a little bit better than the other Ravagers, with Yondu slipping him the extra ration bar now and then. _Yer gittin’ too skinny, son. Not good fer eatin’,_ he had said. Peter had devoured the extra food as it was handed to him, not caring in the moment that Yondu was only trying to fatten him up for the stewpot. That particular detail had been future Peter’s problem.

He flinches when Hogun swiftly raises his arm once again, but the man only uses it to pull his chains forward, bringing the boy to his knees with a graceless stumble.

“And how did you, a common thief, a mere mortal, manage to survive the Destroyer?” Odin asks.

Peter rubs his wrists where the chains chafe. “…Skill?” he says.

“Dumb luck,” Hogun supplies, unhelpfully.

“Look, I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Peter begs, hoping his relative youth will grant him leniency as it had in years past. “Really, I am. I was just so hungry, and this wizard told me about this vault with untold riches, and he convinced me that if he would just transport me inside, I could take a few gold coins – nothing that would be missed – and he’d transport me back. Then we’d split it, and no one would be the wiser. I am just an orphan, kidnapped as a child, but I escaped, and I was just so desperate, but I can see how wrong I was, Your Majesty. I promise I will never do it again.”

“And you very well may not have the chance to,” Odin says, his eye drawn down to the younger man standing a few steps below and to the right of his throne. “…Depending on my heir, my son, Thor’s, sentence.”

“Father?”

“Consider this practice. As the future king, you must weigh justice and mercy to issue a punishment that fits the crime in the context of circumstance, deciding a man’s fate based on the merits of each side, to demonstrate strength without tyranny. You may do well to consider the counsel of your advisors,” Odin says, his one eye flitting to Loki by Thor’s side. “But ultimately, the accused’s fate is in your hands.”

Thor’s chest swells with pride at the faith his father has placed on him to be a righteous and fair king.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d really appreciate it if this life-or-death decision wasn’t a teaching lesson, thanks,” Peter mumbles from the floor, unimpressed with the highfalutin speech that ultimately trivialized whether he lived or died, instead shifting the importance of the question to a test of some privileged princeling’s judgment.

“You stand convicted of a serious offense: breaking into the Royal Vault where the most prized and dangerous treasures of Asgard reside, and your repeated outbursts are not aiding your case for leniency,” Thor remarks, stepping down to appraise the youth before him. Though the prisoner would be his approximate height upon standing, the man’s frame is thin and his face young, as if just exiting the final blushes of childhood.

He’s also mouthy. That couldn’t have gone over well with his original captors, if his story is to be believed.

“Well, I’m real torn up about that, Your Highness, but when you live every day under constant threat of being eaten by your kidnappers if you become less useful than the meat on your bones, then it changes your perspective just a little. I get it; my life is important to no one but me, but it’s all I got, so… with all due respect, I’d appreciate it if a little more care was taken in deciding its fate, you know?”

Thor seems to mull over Peter’s statement before passing judgment. “Michael Night, I have taken your words and extenuating circumstances into account, and for the charge of thievery of the highest order, I sentence you to twenty years in the palace dungeons.”

“Twenty years!” Peter blurts out. He’ll be almost forty (Forty!) by the time he gets out of lock up, and then where will he go? What will he do? Yondu will be long dead by then. He gives himself a mental shake. Since when had he ever considered _Yondu_ of all people his anchor in life, someone he can fall back to when times were rough and uncertain? Perhaps Kraglin… but no, if he thinks he abandoned them, then Kraglin will not help him out either. The skinny git can hold a grudge.

“Thor, my Prince and friend, that is too lenient of a punishment!” Fandral exclaims. “It is but a season, a slap on the wrist for a crime so grave.”

“Fandral has a point, Brother,” Loki advises him, his voice silky, even and measured. “If you let him off so easily, more will follow his example.”

“The Midgardian is young, and his upbringing bleak, desperate, and conducive to the development of criminal behavior,” Thor reasons, stroking his beard in thought. “I think mercy is appropriate in such a case.”

“Mercy?” Peter repeats in a way that suggests more objections are imminent.

“Would you rather I had chosen the customary punishment: death?”

Wisely, Peter shuts his mouth. Death is so final, whereas life is full of possibility, especially with the flexible lockpicks sown into his sleeves.

“That’s better,” Thor says, seemingly satisfied with his prisoner’s blessed silence. “Guards, take him away.”

“Wait!” Peter says, his feet rooted to the spot as the guards pull him to one side.

Thor raises his hand to stay them.

“Can I at least get my Walkman back?” Peter asks.

Thor looks perplexed. “Your what?”

“My Walkman. It’s my music box that you guys confiscated when you captured me. I’d really _really_ like it back, you know… since I’m going away for twenty years.”

Thor shakes his head. “No. We cannot allow you access to a device with unknown capabilities,” he decrees, motioning the guards to resume.

Peter struggles against their hold. “No! You can’t! It’s mine! You can’t take it away from me!”

He’s shaking with rage, with loss, but they drag him along anyway, taking him out of the throne room towards the dungeons below. Just before the doors close, Peter hears Thor tell the Warriors Three:

“Bring me this Walkman of which he speaks. I would very much like to examine it to determine its powers and capabilities.”

 

* * *

 

Assessed as a weak mortal unpossessed of any magical or superhuman skill, Peter is housed in a lower-security sector of the dungeon, the entire block watched over only by a single pair of low-ranking guards relieved at regular intervals.

“Oh c’mon, man! Is this really necessary?” he exclaims, tapping the force field enclosing his cell and hissing when it sparks, like a jolt of static electricity. “I can’t even piss without being in full view of you perverts.”

There’s no privacy, though that is the point of prison.

“We assure you that we take no pleasure in watching you relieve yourself, Prisoner 5R774,” one of the guards states blandly, turning back to his station.

The exposure doesn’t quite bother Peter, not really anyway – the Ravagers were not one for privacy or personal space and often showered in full view of each other – but it did put a damper on his escape plans. Peter prods the invisible netting again, sparking at each touch. He tries to angle his head up and around, looking for the source of the force field, but it terminates in smooth edges at the side, showing no sign of a gap or vulnerability from which to exploit. He examines the floor, finding it smooth, white, and seamless, with no place for his fingers to find purchase and pry open a panel.

He’s stuck here for the time being.

Peter doesn’t give up on escape, planning for it should the opportunity arise. He watches the guards, learning their habits and blindspots and eating his fill, growing used to the crusty bread and vegetable stew provided daily to the prisons. Asgard must want for very little if they fed their incarcerated population decently. Peter thinks of the Ravagers – Yondu, Kraglin, Tullk, and Oblo – and wonders if they’ve cut rations yet again, now that their emergency food supply has gone AWOL. He puts those thoughts to the back of his mind along with the prick of ~~worry~~ , ~~hurt~~ , irritation to concentrate on escape.

Truth told the solitude is torture itself. He can’t stay here, stuck in this cage, his mind wandering and hands fidgeting with boredom and disuse. He makes and remakes his small cot in the corner, hums his favorite songs from his lost tape… He’s even taken to running his fingers over the force-field at times, preferring the slight shock to the barren nothing of his surroundings.

Peter thinks it’s night, based on the duo currently occupying the guard post. It must be very late with the way the one on the right is leaning into his staff. They’re trapped here, too, in a way, but at least they see the outside of these dark walls lined with bright cells. They get to go home to their families at the end of the day.

Staring ahead at the blank wall, Peter absently taps the force field again, feeling the electric zap and wishing he was free as well.

Tap. _Zap!_

Tap. _Zap!_

Tap. _Szzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!_

Unnoticed, on the third tap, a blue spike emits from his hands, shorting out the force field.

Tap.

_That’s new._

Peter turns towards the front when he fails to feel the pinch of another shock. Cautiously, he reaches one finger out, anticipating the familiar spark, but it passes through, unimpeded. He peeks out of his cell. The other prisoners are sleeping, and the guards have yet to turn in his direction. Quickly, he bundles his sheets into an oblong ball to lay into the cot, feigning a sleeping body. Then, he alights from his position, dropping soundlessly to the floor to sneak off towards the back where he spots a ventilation grate. From Xandarian slums to Asgardian palaces, air will always be a necessity. Looking over his shoulder, he checks the guards’ position, then slides the grate to one side, crawling within, and replacing it behind him.

Grateful for how thin he had become, Peter crawls through the ventilation ducts, as he had done in his childhood when hiding from the more short-tempered Ravagers. He navigates through the duct system, feeling ahead for potential pitfalls and avoiding branch passages where the duct narrows. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he has to move quickly before they realize his absence.

Peter periodically checks his position through passing grates, searching for a possible exit when he happens upon an empty laundry on the ground floor. Sliding the grate open, he slips out of the wall register into the darkened room, edging towards the door to get his bearings and scope out his location. He has to move fast.

But first: his Walkman.

Peter knows it’s stupid, but he just can’t help it. He can’t leave his Walkman, the only thing left of his mother, behind. He knew all the songs by heart and even had digital copies back on the Milano and Eclector. Yet, the Walkman and the physical mixtape were things she had given him, had made for him personally, and losing it would be like losing her all over again.

That prince, Thor Odinson, has it. He might even be listening to it now – the rat bastard – but not for long.

Peter doesn’t know where Thor’s chambers are, but he knows how he can find out. He removes his jacket. Pulling on linen underclothes, he then belts the waist and tucks his folded jacket in the belly above it, completing the look with a drab woven overcoat draped around his shoulders. He folds several sheets and tunics, stacking them together and balancing them heavy in his arms as he exits the laundry, heading towards the sounds of kitchen servants already kneading dough and basting meats for the morning meal.

Approaching the kitchen, he holds up the stack to cover his face, keeping his ears open for local gossip. _Mistress Hillevi had poor Inge whipped for being caught with the blacksmith’s boy,_ one of them divulges. _Well, Colborn is quite the handsome fellow,_ another chimes in.

Peter approaches a young male servant dressed in similar clothing washing the flour from the floor in front of the prep station where the dough had already been taken away to rest and rise. “His highness, Thor Odinson, requires fresh sheets,” he says, indicating the piled-high bundle in his arms.

“Another long night for the prince?” the other boy says unphased. He doesn’t even look up as he sloshes a brush in the bucket, before scrubbing it sopping wet against the smooth stone of the floor.

_Skrish, skrish, skrish._

“Well, I hope it wasn’t a Shi’ar this time. Their feathers get everywhere, and it’s always a chore removing the down from all the crevices.” He points the brush towards a wooden stool across the way. “Put them over on the bench, and his personal page will attend to it.”

“Mistress Hillevi requested I do it,” Peter replies.

“You’re not authorized,” the boy says, tilting his head to peer around the pile. “I have never even seen you before.”

“Well, I’m new, and I’m just trying to do what I’m told. So, if you could just point me in the right direction–”

“If you’re new, you’re definitely not authorized to be in the royal chambers. What did you say your name was, again?”

_Shit._

_The secret to gittin’ what chu want is confidence. Yer supposed to be there. Act like it an’ try not to stick around too long, an’ most people won’t see through the bullshit,_ Kraglin, former street urchin and petty con-man, had taught him when they were both still kids.

“Look, I just do as I’m told, same as you,” Peter reasons, affecting an almost-detached tone, as if he didn’t have a personal stake in how this played out. “If Mistress Hillevi tells me to bring the prince new sheets, I’ll bring the prince new sheets. Do you want me to tell her that you’re the reason for the delay, because I’m sure she’ll be real interested to know why his highness is sleeping in his own sweat and other less-than-savory bodily fluids.”

It’s no skin off his nose if the kid is aiming for a whipping.

The youth rises to his feet, skirting around the bundle to get a good look at Peter’s face in the torchlight. “Huh. A pretty boy with a good jawline,” he comments, mostly to himself. “Prince Thor doesn’t usually bother with the help, but I _guess_ you’re his type. I would lose that smart mouth if I were in your position, though. You might be able to parlay his favor into better working conditions, if you know what I’m saying.”

He stoops down to return to his scrubbing. “Turn right into the corridor, up three flights of stairs, then take another right down the hall, then third left. Second door from the end.”

Peter clears his throat. “Thanks.”

The servant shrugs, pausing momentarily in his task. “Put in a good word for me, will you?”

He won’t stay for social niceties, but Peter figures it couldn’t hurt to leave the impression he will. “All right. What’s your name?”

“If you please him, the name’s Fiske. But if you don’t, the name’s Halvor.”

_Skrish, skrish, skrish._

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Peter says as he walks away.

Passing by a cutting board on the way out, he lifts the pile in his arms to palm a knife, slipping it under the sheets. It’s not his weapon of choice, but it will do in a pinch.

 

* * *

 

_Give me back my Walkman, and I won’t stick you._

No.

_Hey, asshole! Remember me?_

No.

 _This is so stupid,_ but he’s not leaving her behind. Not again.

_Unhand my Walkman, foul knave!_

Yeah, he’ll go with that one.

He lifts the ringed handle to Thor’s room, pulling it open slowly to peek inside first. He sees Thor, sound asleep and snoring loudly, the orange Walkman headphones over his ears, and standing over him, a dark figure. Instinctively, Peter tries to shut the door, causing the hinges to squeak. The figure turns to look at the source of the interruption, rushing forward, dagger in hand, to silence Peter before he can sound the alarm.

He barrels through the door, grabbing Peter by the overcoat and pulling him inside. He brandishes his weapon, slicing it forward to stab him.

Peter drops the sheets, parrying the man’s thrust with his own blade and using the momentary surprise to his advantage by punching the unknown assailant in the stomach with his free fist to create distance. The man recovers quickly, knife swishing in close to Peter who dodges the swipe and tries to get in close as well to deal his own damage.

He prefers blasters, naturally, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t versed in other modes of guerilla combat. After all, he hadn’t spent ten years getting kicked around by Yondu and the others for nothing.

The fight doesn’t last long. Just as they break apart for the third time, Peter’s opponent is blasted into the far wall by a large projectile. Peter drops the knife in surprise and looks at where his fallen opponent lies, crushed under a….

Hammer?

Just as he processes the sudden appearance of the hammer, it sling shots back to its source, whizzing past his face into the strong grip of Thor, Prince of Asgard, the prospective victim of Peter’s aborted attempt at armed robbery.

_Fuck._

“You have thirty seconds to explain how and why you have come here, Michael Night,” Thor says from the bed, hammer aimed in his direction.

Peter holds up his hands to show he is unarmed (now).

“I don’t know. My cell malfunctioned, and… and well? Okay, I was planning on getting out of here. I’m only human, so… do you really blame me? But then, you have my Walkman, and thirty seconds is not a lot of time to get into it, but it’s real important to me, and I couldn’t just leave it behind, and then when I came here to get it – I wasn’t going to hurt you or nothing, I just really really need it back – there was this guy here, and he was going to kill you. I could have left, you know, and let him do my dirty work-” That is a lie, but Thor didn’t need to know that. “-but then you were so nice and merciful to me, sparing my life with the whole vault thing, that I couldn’t in good conscience let you die, so I fought him off, and here we are,” he finishes, hoping Thor believes his half-truth.

Thor looks unimpressed. “And where did you get the knife?”

Oops.

“I nicked it from the kitchens, but only because I was going to escape into the woods, and a knife is a multipurpose survival tool,” he quickly lies. He honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead. The meet point would have expired by now, he realizes, his heart sinking. When Thor fails to lower his hammer, Peter tries again: “Dude, I just saved your life.”

Not breaking eye contact, Thor emerges from his bed and approaches Peter, his face set in a neutral expression. Peter's gaze drops to the man's naked chest then further down, noting how the light dances across the firm muscles of his abdomen, highlighting their curves in stark shadows. If it came to blows, there's no way Peter will be able to beat him. Still, he braces himself for yet another fight, his fists clenching and riding high on adrenaline from the last one. He's not going down easy.

Instead, Thor pats his shoulder before firmly grasping it. “I owe you my life, Michael Night, son of no one, though your name is a misnomer. You are a ray of light shining through darkness.”

“It’s Knight by the way, you know… like a warrior, not like the night sky, but most people call me Starlord,” Peter says, relieved and bewildered by his sudden change of fortune.

“I will never forget this day, Michael Knight, Lord of Stars,” Thor declares. His face breaking into a stunning smile, he brings Peter into a side-hug, jostling him about the shoulders, as if they are already old comrades.

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

Fate must be playing another sick joke on its favorite punching bag, Peter Quill. It had been years, but by all rights, Thor Odinson, God of Thunder and Prince of Asgard, should be drinking mead from a golden chalice offered up by his most-recent royal favorite, not lying unconscious across a cold metal table in the common room of Peter’s ship, his body beaten and life in tatters. Still, reduced as he was and looking worse for wear, the man is ruggedly handsome and as fit as he had been the day they met, while Peter…

“Who are you kidding, Quill? You’re one sandwich away from fat.”

That had been quite the shock. He tried to deny it, but even Drax – good old brutally-honest Drax – agreed. Peter had aged, grown soft in the middle as he grew comfortable with his life, with his family. Sure, he still looked good, but… he eyes Thor’s superior physique, zeroing in on Gamora’s worrisome attraction to his ex-lover.

“It’s like his muscles are made of Cotati metal fibers,” she says in wonder, hand delicately smoothing across the firm rounded planes of Thor’s biceps.

“Stop massaging his muscles,” Peter requests, jealousy peaking through his level tone.

Unaware of their history, Gamora abruptly drops Thor’s arm and gives him a look, clearly annoyed at Peter’s insinuation.

Peter will deal with the fall out later. This situation is quickly approaching worst-case-scenario territory. There’s no way Thor won’t remember him, and if he’s out for vengeance, then the easiest conduit will be through the Guardians, through Gamora. For now, he needs to wake up Thor, quickly introduce himself as Peter Quill, and hope that the man chalks up his similarity to the youth who double-crossed him as peculiar coincidence.

He turns to Mantis. “Wake him up.”

She obliges, touching fingers to Thor’s forehead and whispering: “Wake.”

Thor’s eyes abruptly open as he violently flips off the table and rushes, stumbling, to the opposite side of the room. Peter trains his blaster in Thor’s direction, prompting Rocket to aim his plasma canon and Drax and Gamora to raise their swords at the ready. The electronic beeps and trills of Groot’s gaming console provide an incongruous backdrop to the heightened situation as the teen continues to ignore them all.

Breathing heavily, adrenaline pumping, Thor turns to face his new hosts, his one eye darting between the six Guardians, though in Peter’s paranoia, Thor’s gaze appears to rest a touch longer on him.

 _Here it comes._ He opens his mouth to introduce himself – _Quill… Peter Quill, Guardian of the Galaxy_ – when Thor finally speaks.

“Who the hell are you guys?”

He lowers his blaster a hair.

 _Well, that is… unexpected,_ Peter thinks, relieved but also strangely disappointed. Perhaps Rocket and Drax had a point. Maybe he had gained so much weight to the point of being unrecognizable…

Or maybe, just maybe, their fling had meant very little to Thor.

Peter doesn’t expect the thought to sting as much as it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael Knight is the name of David Hasselhoff's character in Knight Rider.


	2. Somebody that I Used to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are introductions and much feasting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note for this chapter and the next: Thor throws around the word “love” quite a bit, but he’s talking more about companionate/brotherly love than he is romantic love. Just thought I’d clarify that before we get into it.
> 
> I also had to up the rating because the last 1500 words or so of a future chapter (possibly the next one) is pretty much gratuitous Thorquill porn instead of the usual fade-to-black thing I normally do, because being a fanfic writer for about a year and a half means I have no shame anymore. Also, since Peter is so much younger than Thor in this fic and he more-or-less depends on Thor’s good graces while in Asgard, Thor has to walk a very fine line to ensure he’s not exploiting Peter and coercing him into doing something he doesn’t actually want. I hope you enjoy it when it comes out :)

**Present Day**

Thor’s eye rolls back, and he drops limp to the floor.

Holstering his blaster, Peter carefully approaches the fallen man, lighting nudging a leg with his foot, outside of the reach of Thor’s hands. When he fails to stir, he backs up and stares at his motionless body.

“Okay, I have a plan, but I want you guys to hear me out before you say anything,” he says aloud, without turning to face his crew, just in case Thor is faking his fainting spell to lull him into a false sense of security. “I say we put him in a pod, enter the coordinates of the nearest hospital, and launch him into space. What do you guys think?”

“Peter, we can’t just send an unconscious man into the void with a note saying, ‘Ship explosion victim. Please take care of him,’” Gamora tries to be reasonable.

“Good thinking, Gamora. We should include a note,” Peter agrees. Leave it to Gamora to improve upon his already-stellar ideas. They make such a good pair.

“He’s unresponsive. He can’t pilot the pod to avoid asteroids. He might not make it to the hospital at all,” she points out.

“I’ll accompany him,” Drax offers, his tone as close to exuberant as he is capable of, which is to say indistinguishable from his usual monotone to the average layperson. “I will ensure his safety.”

Rocket walks past Quill to examine Thor. “Something tells me this isn’t just you being altruistic,” he tells Drax. He slaps Thor across the cheek and frowns when it provokes no reaction. “By all rights, this guy should be dead. He suffered through whatever destroyed his ship, exposure to the void, getting run over by Quill–”

“Hey! That was an accident. We were responding to a distress signal!” Peter protests, nervously scratching the nape of his neck.

“Yeah, but if you had been paying attention to what was directly in front of you, it wouldn’t have happened,” Rocket snaps back. “And now you want to finish the job by sling-shotting him across the void in a tin can he’s in no shape to navigate. Anyways, I agree with Gamora. The guy won’t make it if we space him. We can fly him to a hospital ourselves. That will give us a chance to monitor his condition, figure out what happened to his ship, and maybe we can still salvage this job and get paid.”

“Rocket…” Gamora warns.

Rocket holds up his paws to placate her. “And save his life! I’m not a complete monster.”

“I agree with Rocket. Having this man on-board the ship for the time being is the best course of action,” Drax concurs, passing Quill to stand next to Thor as well to admire his well-toned musculature.

“Guys, really? He could be dangerous,” Peter argues. “Mantis? Groot? Back me up here.”

“I would feel guilty if something happened to the pirate-angel-baby,” Mantis says, casting her vote for Team Rocket.

“I am Groot.” _Hold on, I’m almost at the end of this level._

“Yeah, sure thing, Groot. It’s not like it’s a life-or-death decision for this guy over here. He’s only minutes away from death, probably,” Rocket says sarcastically before addressing Peter. “Even if Groot sides with you, that’s still four-to-two, so the pirate-whatever stays.”

Drax grunts as he lifts Thor up by the shoulders to drag him to a cot. “The process works.”

 

* * *

 

**Eighteen Years Prior**

“So, does this mean I can have my Walkman back?” Peter asks, tugging lightly at the headphone cords dangling over Thor’s chest.

“Certainly, young Michael,” Thor replies. He removes the headphones from around his neck to pass both it and the cassette player to Peter. Peter clicks open the deck to ensure the tape still remains within, undamaged, sighing in relief when he spies his mother’s scrawl across the top.

Thor watches him carefully. “I have not been able to ascertain the significance of this ‘Walk-man.’ It appears to be a common music player with an admittedly nice selection of ballads, but nothing more. Perhaps now you can enlighten me as to its primary purpose.”

“No, you pretty much nailed it.”

“Then why did you come for this device of yours? You went to great lengths, risking your freedom, to retrieve it. Surely, you have duplicates of this music elsewhere.”

He does. Several, in fact. Yondu had cloned digital copies on the Eclector for Peter when he had a room there, and he had a set on the Milano as well, but the actual Walkman and his mother’s original mix tape were special in ways that transcend their contents. The Ravagers never understood. He suspected even Yondu barely understood beyond the basic math that a confiscated Walkman equaled a completely inconsolable Terran. Ergo, Peter didn’t feel the need to explain to this prince with a wonderfully-intact family either.

Peter taps the plastic case lightly, fiddling with the buttons to ensure they still work. “Oh… um, well, I’ve had it a long time, and I love the music. This is a compilation of the twelve best songs to ever come out of my planet, and it would be a shame to lose them.”

Thor seems to accept his explanation. “Ah, I understand. It is a momento of your lost home from before you were abducted and forced into a life of thievery by your captors.”

“…Yeah, something like that.”

Thor seems thoughtful, then: “I could return you to Midgard, if–”

“That won’t be necessary,” Peter says quickly. He had been gone so long, and his mother… his mother had died there. Alone. She had asked him to take her hand, to help comfort her on her way into an afterlife Peter no longer believed in, but he had been too scared, too sad… thinking that somehow if he didn’t, she wouldn’t leave him just yet. It had been her dying request, and he just couldn’t…

He can’t ever return.

“I don’t have anything to go back to, you know?” he further clarifies.

The hand on Peter’s shoulder gives him a light squeeze. “You have no family?” Thor inquires, his tone soft in sympathetic sorrow.

“No,” Peter lies.

“Then you may stay here as my guest for the time being.” He walks back to his wardrobe, throwing it open. “I will have a room prepared for you and fresh clothing while your’s are being laundered.”

Peter watches the muscles of his new host’s back bunch as he pulls on a fresh tunic, still in disbelief at the turn of events. “That sounds awesome,” he finally manages. “Not that I’m complaining, but a real bed would be a serious upgrade.”

Having dressed, Thor passes him on the way to the door. He picks up the assassin’s knife, flipping it over in his hand to examine the ivory blade terminating in a sharpened point. He pockets it then turns to address Peter. “Come Lord of Stars, I will have a bath drawn for you while you wait.”

 

* * *

 

Thor’s entourage had been significantly less enthusiastic about the improvement in Peter’s circumstances.

“Brother, you can’t be serious,” Loki tells him early the next morning. “The boy is a common thief who targeted the Royal Vault then subsequently compounded his delinquency by attempting to escape _your_ rather-lenient sentence, and you seek to reward him with your favor?”

“I reward him for saving my life,” Thor replies. “It seems like the sort of behavior that should be encouraged.”

“You give Menglad too much credit. He likely got into a disagreement with his co-conspirator over who should be allowed to deliver the fatal blow, and they woke you in their senseless tussle. As is said: There is no honor among thieves.”

“Um… the name’s Michael, Michael Knight, and you don’t have to talk about me like I’m out of the room. I’m standing right here,” Peter deadpans. “You’re staring right at me.”

“I am well aware of that fact, but my foolish brother and I are trying to have a conversation,” Loki says crisply.

“For once, Loki and I are in agreement,” Fandral chimes in from his lounge on the settee. “How can you trust this outsider, who you recently consigned to spend a good portion of his short life confined to the dungeons, to have not been part of the plot against your life?”

“You did not see what I saw that night. It was no battle amongst friends, and young Michael did not seem fazed at the loss of his alleged partner in the direct aftermath of his death,” Thor reasons, addressing their collective concerns. “He appears to be earnest in his claim of ignorance.”

“That’s unsurprising,” Hogun grumbles. If there was one thing he knew from interrogating the suspect, it was that the boy barely knew anything at all about Thor, Asgard, or life in general.

“But don’t you find it a bit too convenient that he happened to escape and be in your chambers the night of the assassination attempt,” Loki presses, his gaze trained on Peter while still talking about him as if he was an object to be assessed, found wanting, and ultimately discarded.

Peter bristles under the thought, returning Loki’s look with a glare of his own. “Someone is clearly out to get your brother, but that person isn’t me. I mean… if you were trying to kill Thor, would you really send me?” He lightly beats his chest with both fists then places his hands on his hips. Shrugging in faux humility, he adds: “Okay yeah, I’m a great thief, the best there is, but I am no murderer.”

“The boy makes a compelling argument,” Valstagg says through a mouthful of grapes pilfered from the edible decorative centerpiece, “though he vastly overestimates his skills of grand larceny. He did not manage to steal a single gold coin from the Vault before losing his nerve and getting caught.”

“No one said anything about an internal security system that shoots fire from its face!”

“Did you even ask?” Loki counters.

Peter looks sheepish as he scratches the back of his neck. “No, but it feels like the sort of thing that should be disclosed ahead of time.” He needs to get that tooth and get out of here quickly, before the others convince his new benefactor to reinstate his prison sentence. Was that even possible? Did they have double jeopardy in Asgard?

“Thor, do you really think we can trust him?” Lady Sif interjects, drawing Peter’s attention. She is the most beautiful woman Peter has ever seen, though that isn’t really saying much considering his recent history living amongst the Ravagers.

Thor doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“All right then.” Her tone is decisive, deferential yet strong as she casts her support behind the elder prince. “The boy stays.”

Peter graces her with one of his very best smoldering looks that he hopes does not come off as creepy. He had been practicing in the chipped mirror of his bathroom in the Milano but truly did not have enough field experience with the opposite sex to perfect it. At the very least, Lady Sif is not calling for his immediate imprisonment and/or execution. Perhaps he can stay a bit longer and see where that goes, Peter thinks.

Her brow crinkles in obvious displeasure.

Or maybe not.

Peter’s come-hither look evidently needs more work.

Loki crosses his arms and steeples fingers against his temple in irritation. “Please tell me you have at least informed Father of this turn of events. I would hate to have him hear about your new pet from the help.”

The subtle reproach temporarily dims Thor’s exuberance. “…I was planning on breaking the news before we sat for breakfast.”

“So, that is a ‘no.’” Loki frowns. “The boy isn’t a puppy you can hide in your wardrobe and hope no one notices when you declare you will sup in your room that night and every night thereafter,” he says pointedly.

“Still right here,” Peter reminds him yet again but is summarily ignored by all parties.

“Father made me responsible for his sentence, and if I choose to commute it to time served, then I stand by that decision,” Thor replies, still ever-confident. “I am certain he will see it my way.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you out of your blasted mind?”

Odin had been surprised to see Peter walk into the antechamber of the Great Hall early with Thor, free and unshackled, but his incredulity had morphed into barely-contained rage when Thor had explained that not only had he freed Peter, but he had also invited him to stay in the palace as his guest.

Indefinitely.

“Michael Knight has nowhere else to go, and he _did_ save my life," Thor repeats for emphasis.

Peter stands behind the prince, eyes averted towards the golden reflection of Thor and Odin in the polished floor. It’s not that he’s _scared_ of Odin’s ill-temper – he has been on the receiving end of similar treatment and punitive beatings more times than he can count with Yondu – but the air had become significantly more charged in the last fifteen minutes. Peter smells ozone and wonders if the Allfather will smite him here and now.

“Perhaps the boy is no mere mortal,” Odin says instead. “He has clearly bewitched you into believing yourself indebted to him. That is the only possible explanation for why you would invite a fox into the henhouse.” He massages his temple in exasperation. This was worse than the time Thor brought home a pregnant venomous snake and infested the palace with its wriggling, hungry babies. Thor had been so upset when Odin forced him to fell each and every one. Frigga had not approved, and he suspected she had aided their son in his punishment as Thor never did learn to not bring home strays.

And so it has come to this.

Thor remains undeterred. “Father, the boy is young and has potential, like Hogun did when he first arrived from Vanaheim after its conquest. Everyone said you couldn’t trust him, a Vanir, as you would a natural-born Asgardian, and yet he has grown to be one of our most loyal and capable soldiers.”

“That is different. Hogun has never committed a crime against Asgard.”

“But his father and elder brothers raised arms against our armies, killed Asgardian soldiers and were in turn killed by them. By all rights, Hogun should want revenge. He should not love me so, but he does, and I would and have trusted him with my life. Now, I am not saying this as a black mark against Hogun – as I have said, I count him among my closest friends – but an unsavory background should not disqualify a person from potential service, if they prove themselves worthy through redeeming acts as young Michael has,” Thor persists.

Hogun had been one of Odin’s favorite wartime acquisitions after all.

When he sees Odin’s resolve softening, he pounces on the opportunity to further strengthen his case: “Besides, it may very well benefit Asgard to have a representative from Midguard, one of our nine tributary realms, at court.”

“You would vouch for this Midgardian?”

Thor is quick to agree. “Yes. He won’t cause trouble. Isn’t that right?” he says, turning to finally address Peter.

“Yeah, sure. No trouble at all,” Peter confirms. The wizard hadn’t specified tooth size, so Peter will just have to steal one of the smaller ones from the back of the inner set of jaws. No one will be the wiser.

Odin mulls it over before declaring, “Michael Knight can stay for the time being. Just know that his actions, both good and bad, reflect on you and your judgment.”

“I understand, Father.”

When Odin enters the Great Hall ahead of them, Thor stays back, telling Peter, “I hope you appreciate the lengths I am going to in order to secure your place in court, and you do not do anything to besmirch my good name.”

“Course not, Your Highness,” Peter lies easily.

“Call me Thor.”

 

* * *

 

Breakfast had been a rather _interesting_ affair.

Though he hadn’t used them in a long time, Peter remembers table manners. In a time before the anything-goes Ravager mess halls, his mother and grandparents had held hands and said grace before their first bite. They had admonished Peter for putting his elbows on the table, chewing with his mouth open or while talking, and reaching for food across other people’s place settings. He would have to ask to be excused and that request was only granted in the event he cleared his plate. Peter knows how to be polite in such situations; his mother raised him right.

Or so he had thought.

He had expected a complex system of cutlery to be laid out in front of him, a different utensil for every course as he remembered seeing on old period dramas featuring European nobility of which his grandmother had been a fan. Instead, there was a large knife, one for each guest, and nothing else. By watching the others, Peter quickly learned that he was meant to pick up his meal with said knife and eat off it like a kebab, but even this much was optional. Thor and much of his retinue ate with their hands, quickly shoveling food into their mouths, sopping up the meat juices from their gilded plates with crusted bread before downing those as well. Speed seemed to be the mark of good manners as they talked and laughed and told bawdy stories, all while chewing simultaneously, and drank from heavy tankards which were summarily thrown to the beaten floor when empty, not sparing precious few seconds to reposition them on the table.

“Another!” is the frequent cry as servants bustle around, replacing the revelers’ drinks and collecting the used up ones from the floor. Peter considers it a rather inefficient system for refills and thought of the poor palace dishwasher, forced to wash three times the tankards because the populace bizarrely insisted they were single-use only. Kitchen drudgery had been one of his very first jobs on the Eclector after his abduction, and he still remembered how his baby skin and chafed and cracked under the unending stream of recycled water and lye soap.

Peter takes a sip, still on his first tankard of the meal, when Thor pats him on the back, forcing him to lurch forward, almost spilling his drink.

“You have been nursing that one all morning. Do you not like your ale?” he inquires jovially, moving to relieve Peter of his tankard to possibly smash it to the ground and request something else.

Peter’s grip tightens on the handle as he pulls it closer to his body and suppresses the urge to punch Thor as he would any Ravager trying to steal his rations. He’s a guest, he has to remind himself. He can’t assault his host.

“No! No… I just… don’t usually drink so early in the morning,” he stumbles through his explanation before taking another sip.

“Ah, I understand. You are unused to such bounty.” Thor is giving him that look again, soft and kind in a condescending way that makes Peter want to punch him for reasons unrelated to the meal itself.

He is no charity case and would appreciate not being treated as such.

For now, though, he just has to play along, keep his head down, and find a crack in their security to exploit. He must concentrate on the mission, two million credits, as well as gaining the long-sought-after respect of Yondu and his surly band of assholes.

“When you are finished, I would like to introduce you to someone,” Thor continues.

“Huh? Yeah sure, whatever you want,” Peter says absentmindedly, reaching for a second helping of roast duck. He might as well fill up while he’s here before returning to the tinned mystery meat and lukewarm grey mash of the Eclector. He bites into the crisped skin of the duck, the layer of hot fat lying just below the surface gushing in his mouth like melted butter. He chases it with a draught of ale, smacking his lips in appreciation.

He is going to miss this when it’s over.

When Peter has eaten his fill, Thor ushers him to the head table on a risen platform, where Odin sits, overlooking the festivities. Thor can’t possibly mean to introduce him to the Allfather _again_. Peter had met the man twice with every subsequent meeting more disastrous than the former. Perhaps he was mistaken about the nature of this feast. In the dungeons, he had heard the royal family be referred to as a pantheon, with Thor himself designated the God of Thunder. Perhaps he was leading him to a sacrificial alter where Peter would serve as the fatted calf.

Oh god, he hopes what he had been eating was duck and not–

“Michael Knight, please meet Frigga, the Queen of Asgard and my mother,” Thor introduces the regal woman seated to the right of Odin. “And Mother, this is Michael Knight of Midgard. He saved my life last night and will be my guest for the near future.”

“I would like to thank you for your service to our family, Michael Knight,” Frigga says, gracing him with a radiant smile. “You are welcome in our home.” Her voice is sincere and much more convivial than Odin’s had been a short time before.

“Thank you, ma’am– I mean, Your Majesty,” Peter fumbles. He looks down, and seeing breadcrumbs on his person, brushes off his robes and straightens them out. He looks up to find her expression still warm, her smile reaching her eyes that have just barely begun to crinkle at the corners. Her hair is blonde, full and curled, as his mother’s had been before the chemo took it from her.

“Mother, with your encouragement, Magnus will never leave,” Loki says as he approaches from behind Peter. “And what a tragedy that would be.”

“Loki, you should be nicer to our guest,” Frigga admonishes her son. “He saved your brother’s life.”

“There has been rigorous debate about–”

“Come now, Brother,” Thor interrupts, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “We should not speculate on such matters in public, especially not when it calls the honor of our guest into question.”  He turns back to Peter while still keeping his grip on Loki. “Would you like to accompany us on a hunt?”

Peter nervously rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah sure, I’m game.”

“Well, in that case…” Loki starts, his fingers itching for the short daggers hidden in his sleeves.

“No,” Thor states firmly, pulling his brother a hair back from Peter, “We’re hunting boar today. They have been rooting around the gardens and making a general nuisance of themselves.”

Loki protests, “You heard him. The boy _volunteered_.”

“Loki…” Frigga warns, shooting him a look of motherly disapproval that has her youngest slouching in retreat.

Peter simply watches the exchange, his trepidation of his extended stay growing. Perhaps he should be more exacting about his word choice in the future.

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

Thor wakes hours later, lifting himself up with more care than he had on his earlier attempt. Drax had been by his side to hold him steady while Rocket evaluated his mental state and tallied the physical damage. It’s mostly lacerations, burns, and crushing injuries, only 20% of which can be attributed to Quill’s poor piloting and navigational skills, but the man’s body is mending at an impressive rate.

His advanced healing made sense when he had introduced himself as Thor, God of Thunder and King of Asgard, though a king of much reduced means due to recent circumstance. He had acknowledged them each in turn as the Guardians introduced themselves.

“And the name is Quill, Peter Quill,” Peter had said, but this sparked no discernible recognition in Thor’s features as his eye slid past Peter to settle on Gamora standing next to him. Peter had reflexively tightened his arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer to himself and only relaxing when Thor subsequently tried to strike up a short conversation with Groot.

Presently, the others circle around Thor while Peter stands in a corner, staring grim-faced at his ex-lover and wondering if his apparent forgetfulness is a result of temporary trauma-induced amnesia or apathy.

He’s not sure which he would prefer.

“I am fine, good sir,” Thor tells Drax, waving him off to demonstrate that he can sit up unassisted. “So, if I could be on my way, I desire to track down Thanos and avenge my people.” His head dips down as his torso leans heavily forward, tenuously held up by arms planted firmly on either side of his thighs.

“Thanos?” Gamora repeats. “You’re saying Thanos did this.”

Thor tips his head to the side, focusing his lone eye on her. “Yes, my home planet had been recently destroyed as was foretold in our prophesies. I was ferrying my people to Earth in search of refuge when our craft was attacked by Thanos and his men. He killed my brother and half the survivors, allowing the other half to continue on their way to Earth.” Thor rubs his face with one hand before running it over the shorn sides of his head. He pulls it away to look at the palm, satisfied when it proves to be dry and devoid of blood. “I have no doubt they have survived. The Valkyrie leading them may be a drunkard, but she’s competent and a survivor. She’ll keep them alive, keep them safe.”

“We’ll get you something to eat,” Gamora offers gently, as she steps away. Thor continues to watch her as she walks up to Peter and lightly runs her palm against his biceps to draw his attention. “Peter, a word?”

She’s warming up some broth from their supplies in the insta-heater when Peter finally speaks.

“I don’t trust that guy.”

Gamora seems to have anticipated his reaction and calmly lays out her case. “Thanos decimated his people and nearly killed him, though he managed to survive the capsizing of his ship and a not insignificant amount of time in the void. He’s strong. Perhaps if we joined forces–”

“You want him to stay?” Peter asks incredulously, his eyebrows jumping to his hairline.

She interprets his reluctance as something else entirely. “Peter, you have nothing to be jealous about. This is about stopping Thanos from trying to kill half the universe.”

“I’m not jealous? Why should I be?” he says defensively. “Unless…” he slows down, his mind chewing on her words to extract its fearful meaning, “You think I should be jealous… Gamora? Should I be jealous?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Hey, I’m just saying you were the one who brought it up, which means you were thinking it.”

“Peter…”

“Are you attracted to him?” Peter rambles on. “Because he _is_ an attractive man.” It’s not a fair question. He knows whatever answer she gives will never satisfy him. If she says ‘no,’ she’ll be lying, which is itself a red flag, and if she tells the truth, well…

“That doesn’t matter. I love you, and I always will,” she replies. The insta-heater dings, and she turns back towards it to pour the clear soup into a clean plastic bowl extracted from the cupboard.

“That’s not an answer,” Peter grumbles. But it’s the only one he’s going to get.

Gamora gives him another look over her shoulder as she places the soup, a spoon, and a glass of water on a tray and carries it past him towards the infirmary, towards Thor. She is not going to dignify that with a response. Peter follows closely after her, resolving to monitor the situation as it develops.

“You know he probably doesn’t even know how to use a spoon,” Peter points out. Thor may be a king, but Peter knows how to use all the utensils, even chopsticks if you count using them as skewers. Peter is cultured like that.

“Then he can drink it straight from the bowl,” Gamora murmurs as she balances the tray in one hand and places a palm over the access panel of the door. When it sweeps open, she crosses the room to place it on a small table next to Thor’s cot.

“Thank you, Lady Gamora,” Thor says as he lifts both bowl and spoon to feed himself in the proper fashion. Gamora turns to raise an eyebrow at Peter. _See,_ he can see her implying. _He operates a spoon just fine._

So the man had picked up a trick or two in the intervening eighteen years. Big deal. Peter still had him beat on general table manners. Thor picks up his water and downs it in one go. Peter takes a step back and braces himself for a crash of splintered glass, but the man simply places the empty vessel carefully back down on the tray with a light _clink_.

Well, Peter’s fucked.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to as a king, but it’s best you eat slow and light so you don’t get sick,” Drax explains.

“It’s fine. Thank you,” Thor replies, continuing to eat his soup. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten in a while.” He smiles at Gamora in gratitude.

Peter remembers the feasts of Asgard with roasted meats so juicy the fat pooled underneath, piles of exotic fruits, warm crusty bread…

 _Liar,_ he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic occurs during Infinity War which is directly after Thor Ragnarok. So, Thor isn't lying when he says he hasn't had a decent meal in a while, but Peter has no way of knowing that.


	3. My Kind of Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter becomes Thor’s drinking buddy and royal favorite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter grew up with on an all-male Ravager ship, so his views on women are… less than evolved here. Thor has to set him straight before he gets himself murdered. 
> 
> Also, there is a hunting scene in this chapter involving Princess Mononoke-sized boars, and Peter’s boar does not go down easily. Part of what Peter does to survive is based on what how my grandpa was able to fend off a Vietnamese potbelly who was known to gore people (basically, he stood his ground and hit it on the nose with a broom to keep it at brooms-length when it was coming after him).

**Eighteen Years Prior**

After breakfast, Thor and Peter meet up with Loki, Lady Sif, and the Warriors Three to round out their hunting party. Valstagg hands Peter an axe similar to his own, but when he lets go, Peter stumbles, barely able to lift the oversized weapon.

“It’s just as heavy as it looks,” Peter grunts, straining to wield the axe, his knees buckling under its heft. He drops it to floor, taking a moment to breathe.

“Perhaps you would prefer a bow?” Fandral offers, but Peter declines with a shake of his head. Arrows are not his preferred weapon either, and Yondu had never shown him how to use a bow, having no need for one himself.

“I’m more of a gun-man myself. If you’re going to trust me with a weapon anyway, can I just have my blasters back?” he asks, straightening out to crack his back and shake out his sore shoulder. “They’re what I’m most familiar with. Been using them half my life.”

Thor nods to Hogun, who frowns in return. “You shoot one of us, I gut you alive and leave you for the crows,” he tells Peter sternly, returning to the armory to collect the confiscated blasters.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Peter calls out to his retreating back. It’s not in his best interest to pick off all six of them anyway, even if he _theoretically_ could do it using the woods as cover, or so he thinks.

Once properly outfitted, they are off, spreading out into the forest to hunt down the troublesome sounder of wild pigs.

It’s not Peter’s first time doing something like this. On occasion, Yondu would fly a small unit of Ravagers down to some wild planet to hunt for fresh meat in order to supplement the Eclector’s food stocks. He often brought Peter, teaching him how to shoot, how to build a fire, how to survive. He’d string up their kill, expertly slitting its throat to drain the blood before skinning and gutting the creature. _This here’s the best part,_ Yondu had said, carving out a dark spongey organ, blood-wet and glistening. He had tried to force Peter to eat it raw, but when the boy vomited the coppery bite Yondu was able to get into his mouth and started to cry, Yondu let him go with an open-palmed smack across his face for blubbering. Sniffling and rubbing the creature’s blood from his stinging cheek, Peter had backed away from the campsite, warily watching his mentor all the while. He had been certain it was all a sick prank until Yondu bit into the organ himself, slurping down the rest of it without complaint and licking his fingers for the remainder.

Peter never did develop a taste for liver, raw or otherwise.

But he did develop other rather-unsavory habits from the Ravager’s all-male crew.

“This way,” Lady Sif breaks off in a light sprint following a trail of bent reeds and broken branches. It must be a sizeable herd considering the wide area of devastation. One didn’t even need to be a particularly skilled tracker to see the signs.

Peter openly stares at her retreating ass covered in tight leggings, the shapely curves of her thighs occasionally peeking out from under her split-pleated leather skirt as she runs.

He nudges Thor. “Hey, so… you ever… you know, with Lady Sif?”

“Have I ever what?” Thor asks, stepping light-footed after Lady Sif with eyes still surveying their surroundings, looking much too high than would be necessary for boars.

“You know…” Peter insinuates, giving his pelvis a suggestive roll. He could infer from the servant’s demeanor the night before that the prince got around, so it stood to reason that he had shared a bed with his cohorts.

Thor stops to regard him, his brow scrunched in confusion. “Sex?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course not. I cannot recall a time I did not know her,” Thor continues forward, dropping his voice: “She is much too close for me to want to know in a carnal sense.”

Peter doesn’t understand his meaning. She’s hot. He’s hot. It only made sense that they would celebrate their mutual attractiveness with a tumble onto the nearest horizontal surface. Plus, he’s admittedly no expert in these matters, but based on her furtive glances in the young prince’s direction, odds are Lady Sif would not be opposed to such an occurrence.

“I don’t know… have you seen how she looks at you? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind getting to know you ‘in the carnal sense.’” Peter whispers back.

Thor waves him off. “Do not be so vulgar. The lady does not pique my interest in that way.”

“She sure picks my interest. Hell, she can pick whatever she wants me to do to her any time any place.”

Thor is silent at that, then: “If you are going to be my personal guest, Lord of Stars, you will need to learn to respect my friends, family, and other members of the Asgardian kingdom, which includes a fair number of women,” he rebukes him.

“Woah, I respect her; I’m just saying–” Peter tries to clarify, to justify his speech, but one look at Thor tells him he’s unlikely to respond positively. “Okay, I got you,” he acquiesces.

“Good.” Thor continues to follow Lady Sif as she makes her way through the underbrush, but the silence in his wake is particularly pointed, unsettled.

Peter feels the need to explain himself, the unfamiliar shame draped across his shoulders like a lead weight. “Sorry, it’s just that I’m not used to having so many women around. My old crew was just a bunch of dudes, and the women we did meet were either prostitutes or… prostitutes, I guess, though I did see the occasional client or two, but mostly the captain dealt with them.”

“Then a word of advice: Most women do not appreciate being spoken of in such a fashion. If Lady Sif is interested, she will make it known. She is not a shy maiden who plays coy with her desires.”

Peter can’t help himself. “Uh huh. So… you think I have a chance with her?”

Thor sighs. “I do not wish to entertain these conjectures, but if you must know: it is highly unlikely.”

“Really?”

“Truly.”

Peter shrugs then presses ahead. “Well, a man can dream, right?”

“Perhaps… if a man can keep it to himself,” Thor counters.

“Copy that.” Peter peels off, surpassing Thor to catch up with Lady Sif. If he can fell more boars than the others, then maybe she will take notice of his hunting prowess and be more open to his advances. It is worth a shot.

“So, how many are we talking?” he asks her once he has caught up.

“Six, maybe seven,” she says confidently.

He doesn’t want to correct her, lest it hurt his chances with her, but there’s no way that the path carved into the forest is made by such a small number of pigs.

“…I think it might be a few more than that,” he hesitates to say. _Like maybe closer to forty head._

Lady Sif’s demeanor stiffens. “I am quite certain of the number. How many times have you participated in a hunt?”

“Not to brag, but maybe over a hundred,” Peter fails to sound humble.

“Is that in years? Well, I have been hunting for near a thousand, and I know how to count.” She throws her arm out to still him. “They’re close.”

Peter rolls away from her outstretched arm, sidestepping her entirely to get closer to the clearing up ahead and their prey. He just wants to take a look at the definitely-larger-than-Lady-Sif-thinks herd and possibly take down a straggler grazing along the outskirts.

“Where are you going?” she whispers furiously as she signals the others to get into formation while trying to corral the rogue element ahead of her.

Peter breaks through the underbrush, turning to whisper loudly over his shoulder, “Don’t worry. I have everything under con–”

He bumps into something large, firm, and distinctly bristly, prickling against the entire side of his face. Bouncing off the foreleg of a giant boar, he stumbles to the ground, as the behemoth, the height of a man-and-a-half to its shoulder, squeals deeply and roots its head low sweeping upwards in an attempt to gore Peter on its enormous tusks. Peter rolls back, connecting with the creature’s nose on its upswing, further infuriating the boar.

The element of surprise lost, Lady Sif pounces forward, sword raised as the boar's initial squeal alerts its six herd mates to the intruders’ presence. She engages the original boar as another comes to challenge Peter.

Avoiding its gnashing teeth, Peter quickly backs up, barely avoiding being impaled on its tusk as he sweeps in and punches its nose as hard as he can. The boar rears back, flinging its head to catch Peter with the blunt side of its tusk and toss him into the trunk of a nearby tree with enough force to paralyze a mere mortal, something that would have caught notice of anyone else had they not been preoccupied with their own opponents. Peter simply rebounds, out of breath with non-life-threatening aches and pains but otherwise unharmed, as he throws himself back into the fray, aiming his blasters to blind the pig’s eyes. It squeals when the plasma bolts find their targets, tipping its head down in pain and confusion as Peter runs up, bounding over its snout as the boar bucks its head, tossing him clear over. Peter lands hard on the boar’s broad back, dropping one blaster as he grips the long hairs to stay on. He holds his remaining weapon to the nape of its neck, delivering several killing blows through the base of its skull.

It’s over in the span of three minutes, but Peter slumps over, leaning against the foreleg of the deceased boar, exhausted as his adrenaline eases and returns to baseline. Thor comes running to check on him, the rest of the hunting party having also dispatched their own boars with minimal complications.

“Are you injured, Lord of Stars?” Thor asks, eyeing Peter for damage and focusing on the way he’s gripping his side from when he had slammed into the tree.

“I’m – I’m… alright. Nothing I can't handle,” he wheezes, breathy and pained. “You should see the other guy.” He pats the limp leg behind him and starts to chuckle, but stops when the effort hurts his bruised ribs.

“You managed to fell one of our more-formidable forest beasts. That’s rather impressive for a fragile Midgardian. I knew you had potential,” Thor says, reaching down to help Peter to his feet and hold him up. “Though your methodology could use work.”

“You sound like my old mentor,” Peter grouses. The boar is dead and he is not; what more could Thor ask for?

Having sauntered over, Loki observes the scene, noting Peter’s continued existence with displeasure. “Ah. The boy lives. How disappointing.”

“Good to see you survived as well,” Peter says sarcastically, leaning heavily against Thor.

Lady Sif is the first to approach the trio. “You shouldn’t have run ahead,” she admonishes Peter. “You gave away our position.”

Peter wants to argue – _I had everything under control the entire time –_ but he knows that’s a lie. Plus, Thor had just spoken to him about respecting Lady Sif, which probably extended to her command as well. He can feel the man waiting expectantly for his answer.

“Yeah… Sorry about that. Won’t happen again,” he says, wincing slightly when Thor gives his torso a slight approving squeeze from where he holds Peter under his armpit.

“Just see that it doesn’t.”

“We should get on with dressing the carcasses for transport,” Valstagg calls out gleefully as he drags his felled boar towards them with an ease only someone of his size and strength could manage. “We shall feed the entire Asgardian army for weeks!”

 

* * *

 

When they return to the palace, sweating and weary, Thor helps Peter to his room and calls for one of the palace medicine men to dress his wounds.

“You’re very lucky, child,” the old man states as he examines Peter’s bare chest. “I have seen a boar tear a man’s head clean off. I have seen people gored and trampled, but you… all your injuries appear to be entirely superficial.” He brushes over the abrasions and nicks to touch a deep bruise blossoming purple over older ones ranging from mottled blue to brownish yellow across his torso, causing Peter to flinch and squirm. “And not all of them are recent.”

Peter scoots away from the man, ashamed but uncertain as to why.

“Don’t need the commentary, Doc. If you could maybe hook me up with some bruise balm, antibacterial cream, and a wad of gauze, I can patch myself up good as new,” Peter says, reaching for his shirt. Yondu had made sure he knew how to apply basic first aid to his own injuries. It had been a necessary component of his hard-knock education between sparring sessions.

The man rummages inside his satchel, producing the required items. “You should clean the area first, especially where the skin is brok–”

Peter snaps, “I know how to dress a wound.”

“Leave us. I will attend to him,” Thor orders, dismissing the man.

Peter picks at the neatly rolled gauze, saying nothing as Thor quietly enters the adjacent bathroom, filling two small basins with warm water and gathering a cake of soap and two washcloths to take out to Peter. He lathers up the cake in one of the basins, dipping the first washcloth to soap it up then running it gently over the shallow lacerations in Peter’s right arm. He then dips the second cloth in the rinse basin to wipe away the soap he had applied.

Thor doesn’t say a word.

“Are you going to ask?” Peter’s voice is low and uncharacteristically subdued.

Thor doesn’t look up, his eyes following the washcloth’s path over Peter’s injuries as he wipes away the blood and grim. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Then no.”

The only sound is the slop-gurgle of water as Thor drags the cloths through the wash basins and out.

 

* * *

 

One of the perks of no longer being a prisoner is that all Peter’s confiscated belongings are returned to him, pressed, folded, and hand delivered to his room. His leathers have never been so clean, but he is more interested in Yondu’s pilfered holo-pad, which still has a direct comm link to his most recent employer. Turning it on, he finds two messages. The first, sent the day he was captured, is a complaint that he had missed the meet point peppered with insults on his professionalism, and the second, sent just the day before, is an offer to increase his fee to 2.5 million credits upon delivery of the Serpent’s Tooth. Deadline: Open-ended.

Peter feels ambivalent. On the one hand, Thor has been nothing but kind to him since his release the day before, but on the other… it’s 2.5 million credits. That kind of cheddar cheese would buy a lot of rocket fuel for the Eclector and good will from its captain and crew.

He types a short message: _Working on it. Will contact when I have the tooth in hand._

His eyes are drawn to the bandages Thor had secured around his arms, smoothly laid and wrapped firm, but not too tight. His thumb hovers over the ‘Send’ button, hesitating a moment before ultimately tapping it, erasing both incoming messages. He shuts down the device.

Having made his decision, Peter surveys the room, evaluating and discarding multiple options for hiding spots before sitting on the foot of the bed and allowing himself to fall backwards so he can stare at the ceiling. Hit with a sudden burst of inspiration, he turns to one side, draping his arm over the edge to feel along the bottom seam of his mattress. It’s even but bunched along the bottom. He rolls off entirely. Pulling the mattress six inches off the slatted frame, he uses a pocket knife to carefully slit the stitches just large enough to stuff the communicator inside along an area not pressed upon by the slats. He pulls out his makeshift tailor kit for patching his clothing, expertly re-sewing the opening and replacing the mattress on the frame, even taking the time to straighten it out.

This mission might take a while. He just needs to lie low and play nice with Thor until he can figure out how to access the Royal Vault without triggering the Destroyer.

 

* * *

 

“Another!” Thor shouts, as he crashes his tankard to the ground. Before a servant can approach with a fresh one, Peter is already there, sliding another fresh beer in front of Thor.

“Here you go,” Peter says brightly, intending to ply Thor with enough alcohol to loosen his lips and start spilling secrets. Peter has barely touched his own drink, but that is hardly unusual. This feat will take awhile, and he’ll need to maintain his own sobriety if he is to remember Thor’s answers in the morning.

Somewhere around the fifth drink, Thor nudges Peter’s first tankard closer to him, almost spilling it in his lap before Peter lifts it from his hands. “Aren’t you going to drink as well? I am feeling lonely in my drunkenness,” Thor tells him.

Peter obliges. One or two can’t hurt.

Five lagers later, Thor is swaying in his seat. Peter is not much better as they collapse together, supporting each other like two sides of a human teepee.

“So, Skadi isn’t laughin’ an’ we got to make her laugh because otherwise she’ll kill us all dead, an’ then… you’re goin’a love this part… Loki says he’s got this in the bag. He can make her laugh,” Thor slurs. “So, he brings out this goat tethered to a rope, see, an’ then he ties,” Thor is laughing so hard the next part is barely intelligible. “He ties… this rope attached to the goat… he ties the other end to his balls.” Thor is illustrating the story with a crude pantomime. “An’ plays tug-o’-war with the goat.”

Now Peter has joined in his raucous laughter, tears coming to his eyes.

“An’ he’s in so much pain,” Thor struggles through laughter. “Screamin’ to high heavens until he falls down. I thought surely he was dead. But then Skadi… that horrendous giantess… she laughs so hard, it fulfills our bargain an’ she lets the rest of us go.”

“But at what cost!” Peter exclaims, causing Thor to descend into fresh giggles.

The two turn to face Loki, who graces them with an icy glare from the other side of Thor.

“Brother, I think you have had enough,” he says as they try (and fail) to contain themselves.

“Is that what he told ya about the goat?” Peter snickers at Loki’s expense.

Loki might murder them both in their sleep, Peter considers in his liquor-addled state, but it will be nearly worth it.

“No, but it didn’t affect his ability to reproduce, isn’t that right, Brother?” Thor adds unhelpfully, next relating a story about Loki’s love affair with Svadilfari’s stallion, from whom he birthed Odin’s favorite steed and grandson, Slepnir.

Perhaps it’s not exactly the family secrets Peter is looking for, but it’s a start.

And so Peter ingratiates himself with Thor. It’s not particularly difficult. Thor is an amiable fellow, prone to good cheer and genuinely receptive to Peter’s brand of humor. If Peter is honest with himself, he likes Thor as well, occasionally even forgetting that the success of his entire operation depends on their growing camaraderie. The lines between Peter’s act and the truth blur more with every passing day.

“…So Thrym the Giant steals Mjolnir and holds it ransom for Mother’s hand in marriage,” Thor tells him another time, his arm draped over Peter’s shoulders to pull him in close. “And we can’t have that, so I impersonate Mother but not very well. I’m barely proficient at the illusionary arts, so I show up as I am, full beard, looking every bit the man I am before you. The Giants don’t notice of course, because they are not particularly adept at recognizing the sexual dichotomy of Asgardians. Loki doesn’t care about any of that and pulls out all the stops on his own disguise, transforming into a beautiful handmaiden to watch this disastrous wedding take place.”

“It is not my fault you never took the time to perfect the magical arts from Mother,” Loki interjects from the sidelines.

“You could have lent some of your talents to my disguise, seeing as how I was the main bait in this sham of a wedding,” Thor argues before turning back to Peter.

“Your hammer; your problem,” Loki comments, taking a sip from his tankard.

“Anyways, they become suspicious of my poor disguise with no help from Loki, who keeps joking about the fact that I am a man,” Thor gives Loki a pointed look, “but they proceed with the wedding. When Mjolnir is revealed, I call my hammer and defeat all in attendance,” he pauses a beat. “And that is the story of my first wedding.”

“Ah yes, it was a beautiful service until you murdered everyone,” Loki drawls. “Keep that in mind when you are drawing up your guest list, Marta.”

“It’s Michael,” Peter reminds him, almost as an afterthought, but he knows the effort is futile.

Thor’s arm slips from his shoulders at Loki’s subtle reprimand. To Peter’s disappointment, Thor moderates his alcohol consumption in Peter’s presence to keep a level head. He manages to keep his hands to himself, but more importantly, he is more guarded in his words the rest of the night and for several nights thereafter.

At this rate, Peter will never learn how to retrieve the Serpent’s Tooth from the Royal Vault.

 

* * *

 

Peter walks through the halls on his way to the library. There must be a way to bypass the security system. Perhaps a secret passageway or something similar. Ancient palaces were always overly complicated like that. The library might have some old forgotten tomes on the subject or blueprints. Peter really hopes he doesn’t have to _read_ to find a solution, but as is said: Desperate times…

Frigga approaches from the other direction, stopping to address him. “Michael Knight, is it?”

He drops his eyes in deference. “Yes, Your Highness.” Though he had gotten used to her presence, Peter still didn’t know how to act around the Asgardian Queen. She made him nervous (but not the way Lady Sif had early on) and a little sad. And while she conducts herself in the manner befitting a queen, she is also motherly – almost too much so, in fact – in ways that are emotionally compromising for Peter.

“My son is very fond of you,” she states, her voice still as warm as it had been that first day.

“Thank you. I am quite fond of him as well.” Over the past six weeks, Peter had gotten quite good at affecting Asgardian speech patterns, though he only used it with people outside of Thor’s inner circle of friends.

“He tells me you are interested in magic, specifically protection spells?”

 _Damn it._ Peter needs to be more sly about his inquiries, lest the man get suspicious.

“Well… yes, um…” Peter struggles to come up with an excuse. While he generally had few qualms lying to maintain cover, Frigga is Thor’s mother, and mothers always had a sixth sense when it came to their sons.

 _What’s this, baby?_ Mom had asked when she found the well-worn, folded-up picture of David Hasselhoff in his jean pocket while doing laundry. The other kids had been teasing him again about not having a father, and Peter had just wanted to show them his dad was the coolest man he could think of. Instead of saying that though, he had shrugged. _Nothin’. I just like him._ Mom had held him then. _You know you can tell me anything. Anything at all, Peter. It’s alright._ At the time, he thought she was referring to his feelings over his absent father, but in retrospect, she probably thought he liked David Hasselhoff a little more than what was acceptable in 1987 Missourian society.

“It’s my other son, isn’t it?” Frigga offers up the perfect explanation instead. “Loki threatens you with grave bodily harm?”

Peter seizes the out.

“Um… well…” he scratches the nape of his neck. “I don’t wish to speak ill of your son, but he has… on occasion…” he gives her his best puppy-dog look to allow the insinuation to hang and let her fill in the blanks with her own assumptions. “And I’m only human. I’m not sure how many stabbings I can withstand. We Midgardians do tend to be quite leaky.”

“Perhaps I could be of some assistance,” she says, leading Peter into a parlor.

 

* * *

 

When Loki happens upon them an hour later, Frigga is showing Peter basic protection spells using a talisman she had crafted for his purpose. While attempting to teach him very rudimentary cloaking spells, diversion tactics, and the like, she had quickly ascertained that being a Midgardian, Peter simply didn’t have any aptitude for unassisted magic. It’s not for lack of interest, like Thor had demonstrated, her eldest being content to focus on learning to fight in the way of his father. No. Peter is highly motivated, attempting the spells over and over without ceasing and growing increasingly frustrated when he was unable to make them any of them work. And so, she had switched to object-assisted magic.

“And this will protect me from magical mischief?” Peter asks her, stringing the triangular silver badge on a bit of cord to wear around his neck.

“Yes, that is correct.”

“And what of practical mischief of the stabbing variety?” he asks.

“There is something,” she says seriously. “A near-magical innovation that came out millennia ago to protect against the daggers and swords of the physical realm.”

“Really?”

“Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s called chainmail.” She cracks a small smile. “I apologize for the jest, but there is no spell the magically-impaired can wield to protect themselves from such things. Even Thor himself wears a version of chainmail under his plate armor to protect his arms.”

“’Magically-impaired’… that’s a nice way of saying ‘sucks at magic,’” Peter points out, but he is gratified that she feels comfortable enough to joke around him. “Wait, does this mean Thor sucks at magic, too?”

“We all have different gifts, Michael Knight,” she says wisely.

“Mother… what is the interloper doing here?” Loki stands at the front entrance, taking in the scene. Peter had already monopolized Thor’s attention as of late, cutting into the time the brothers usually shared, and now his own mother? “Are- are you teaching him?” His voice is low, dangerous.

Magic is their thing.

“Loki, I am just showing Michael Knight some spells for his own protection during his stay,” Frigga explains. It’s really Loki’s fault that she feels obligated to do so.

“I think… I think I’m just going to go,” Peter says, exiting out the back so he doesn’t have to pass Loki. With the rather stiff way the man holds himself, Peter can’t even trust Frigga’s presence to save him from a quick and rigorous shanking.

Loki doesn’t so much as look at Peter, choosing instead to confront his own mother over his feelings of betrayal. “Well, I see that you’ve taken to Thor’s new pet Midgardian. Magnhild, was it? His parents clearly wished for a girl.”

Frigga gives him a stern look. “You know it is Michael. You should be nicer to him. The boy seems shy but polite. I am certain he simply misses his own mother.”

“So, you aim to adopt just any unwanted urchin who crosses your threshold?”

“Loki…”

“I never thought I would be replaced by a Midgardian of all things,” he muses. “Father and I never truly connected, but I would have thought you…”

“Loki, stop. I do not prefer him over you, and your father loves you. We _both_ do,” she emphasizes.

“Do not speak for father.”

“But it is true. He does love you in his own way.”

Odin had always been tough on both brothers, but Loki had long assumed he favored Thor as Father and Thor's interests converged, and they spent more time together. This supposition had been confirmed for him when Odin had named Thor his heir. Had he ever truly considered Loki for the position? It is unlikely. However, he had always thought he was Mother’s favorite, but now–

“Perhaps it is best that Michael isn’t a girl with the way Thor is carrying on,” he insinuates. “If he was, would you allow a non-Asgardian to intermix with this family, to hold her as your equal and one day let their mixed progeny sit upon the throne as Allfather?”

“That is enough, Loki,” she says firmly, her tone laced with enough anger to still his tongue. “If Thor one day welcomes a non-Asgardian into the family, it is not for anyone to pass judgment, not even you, my son.”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t think your brother likes me very much,” Peter tells Thor later while they walk through the gardens. Thor had wanted to show him a rare flower that only bloomed for a single day once a decade. Peter had thought it similar to the Skunk Cabbage of his childhood except ten times larger and without the signature scent.

“That is just Loki’s way. He has always been a contrary sort, but he’s harmless…” Thor seems to think better of that assessment. “Mostly. I would not touch anything he knows you’re interested in when he is not in eyesight… or even when you can see him. My brother’s powers of illusion are quite impressive…” He’s silent for a beat, then: “On second thought, stay by my side until he grows accustomed to your presence and comes to love you as I do.”

“Awesome,” Peter says sarcastically.

Thor brushes off his concern, as he often seemed to do when it came to Loki’s deadly antics. “It won’t take long– a few years at most. I have confidence in your charm, Lord of Stars.”

 _Years?_ Yeah, there’s no way Peter is staying that long.

They come across Frigga on the way in. “Ah Thor, have you shown Michael Knight the _Floris Gigantis_?” she turns to Peter to address him directly when Thor indicates he had with a nod. “Did you like it? The timing of your stay is quite fortunate, allowing you to capture a glimpse of its rare blossom.”

Though Peter would be lying if he said the thought isn’t tempting.

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

While the others tend to Thor, Peter shuffles into his room, picking up his long coat from where he had flung it over the bed that morning and hanging it in the paneled closet fitted seamlessly into the hull, to keep it out of sight from the prying eye of their new guest. Before closing it shut, he lightly smooths over the triangular badge on the lapel, a lasting momento of his time in Asgard. He thinks of Thor, of Loki and Frigga, and how they were back then. They’re gone now. Everything… even Asgard itself exists only in the memory of the few survivors.

Truth told, he never thought he would outlive any of them. 

He can’t let Thor see the talisman. If nothing else, he will surely recognize his mother’s handiwork.

He closes the panel, hoping to similarly shut out his memories, his own guilt, and the sneaking suspicion that he might just reap the fruits of what he had sown all those years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In pictures of Peter’s trench, he has a silver badge on the inside left lapel that appears to be decorative. This is what I’m referencing as something given to him by Frigga as a protective talisman, primarily against Loki’s magic. After the operation concludes, Peter sews it into his trench partially because it’s useful and partially as something to remember his time in Asgard. Of course, he can’t let Thor see it and wears his short jacket for much of the fic.
> 
> Also, all the stories Thor tells when he’s drunk are real stories from Norse mythology.


	4. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter intends to complete the job but gets side-tracked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my patient readers. It took almost 20,000 words, but they're finally going to bone.

**Eighteen Years Prior**

Not too long after Frigga had taken Peter under her wing, an opportunity to complete his mission arises unexpectedly from an unlikely source.

Asgard had been preparing for the Festival of Ostara, a two-day celebration of the spring equinox to mark a time of renewal and fertility. When Thor gifted him with a pair eggs colored gold and scarlet, Peter recognized the holiday as the likely precursor to Easter. _So, do you personally know Jesus?_ Peter had asked. _Who?_ had been Thor’s response. _Ostara is your Goddess of Spring. Father liked the fanfare of it and brought over the tradition from Midgard._

As a prank, Loki had somehow enchanted the Destroyer to blast flower petals from its face instead of the traditional (and vastly more effective) fire and brimstone, prompting Odin to take it down for a short two-day maintenance, post additional guards, and punish his trickster son with a stint in prison for the entirety of the festival. Thor is relieved Loki’s prank had been relatively innocuous after the ravenous bunny fiasco the prior year nearly left him as blind as Father.

Peter is excited for an altogether different reason.

With the Destroyer down, the Royal Vault is less secure for a limited window of time. Peter should go now while it’s so vulnerable.

“Tonight is the feast of ten thousand rabbits,” Thor tells him. “Fandral and Hogun have challenged Valstagg to a contest of gluttonous skill, saying he cannot consume more rabbits than the two of them combined. Lady Sif and I have placed bets on who will be victorious. I have my money on the two as I observed Valstagg consuming large quantities of pastries for lunch.”

Or maybe Peter could wait a few hours, if only to spend one last evening with Thor before they parted company.

Forever.

The thought doesn’t exactly sit well with him, but it is the nature of the job. Peter is a tumbleweed, a lone wolf, a rogue element that passes through people’s lives, leaving them both richer and poorer for having known him. Yeah… he’s basically Han Solo before Princess Leia made him soft, but there will be no snarky love interest to distract him from his primary objective and the 2.5-million-credit payout.

“I aim to instruct the staff to always stay abreast of Valstagg’s requests for more wine and ale. The more he drinks, the less room for rabbit.” It didn’t happen often, but occasionally, Thor demonstrated a slightly devious streak Peter relished.

“You should encourage him to drink more ale. It’s carbonated and will fill him up faster.”

Thor beams. “An excellent suggestion, Lord of Stars. I shall inform Valstagg the palace brewers have crafted the finest batch for the occasion. He fancies himself quite the gustatory connoisseur.”

Peter quirks a brow. “So, you’re going to lie to him.”

“It is no lie. The palace brewers consistently exceed expectations. I am simply reminding him of this fact.”

“Right…”

 

* * *

 

Even with Thor’s attempts to give his team the edge, Valstagg claims victory.

“I believe the sum was twenty silver pennies,” Lady Sif says, as Thor begrudgingly hands over the amount in a small leather pouch. She doesn’t even count it, trusting her old friend not to short her on their bet.

“It was a near thing,” Thor says, staring at the pile of rabbit carcasses in front of his three friends. While Hogun and Fandral had put in a good effort, their combined pile is no match for the one in front of the broad giant.

Lady Sif acknowledges the close race with a gracious tip of her head before implying Thor had possibly stacked the competition against her. “Yes, but it would have been a wider margin had Valstagg’s cup been allowed to run empty at any time.”

“I only aim to be a good host,” Thor says, biting the smile from his lip.

He’s caught. They both know it.

“The best, of course,” she agrees, gently knuckling Thor’s shoulder with a certain fondness.

“I didn’t think it was even possible to eat that much,” Peter says from the other side of Thor. Valstagg could likely out-eat even Gef or Taserface in a rigged competition.

Thor shrugs. “I should have known to never bet against Valstagg’s appetite. The man could pick a horse clean if he had a mind to.” He looks beyond Peter, standing abruptly in greeting.

“Hail Heimdall! It has been too long,” he says as a solemn man approaches to join their table. “Heimdall, this is Michael Knight, Lord of Stars, my personal guest from Midgard,” he introduces Peter. Heimdall acknowledges him with a curt nod.

“And Michael Knight, this is Heimdall, sworn gatekeeper of the BiFrost Bridge and an old friend.” He turns back to the man, “And how goes it? Are you having a good time at the Ostara Festival?”

"Yes. It is all the better now that Loki is imprisoned for the time being,” Heimdall replies, his voice as stoic as his face.

Predictably, Thor rises to the occasion with another excuse for Loki's behavior. “My brother means no real harm. He is just too fond of his own cleverness.”

“Heimdall rarely leaves his post,” Lady Sif tells Peter as an aside. “He is the front line of Asgard’s defense. He sees all, hears all across the Nine Realms.”

Peter looks into his tankard, fingers tapping against the side. “When you say sees all…”

“Near omniscient. Can see literally everything happening anywhere,” she confirms, her eyes narrowed in suspicion at Peter. “Which is why it was such a surprise to find you in the Royal Vault that day with no forewarning.” She pauses for a beat, then: “How did you manage such a feat?”

“I already told you. It was a wizard,” Peter replies truthfully.

“A wizard after gold?” she presses, her tone making her disbelief clear.

“What else could he be after?”

 

* * *

 

The night is still young when Thor seemingly becomes concerned about whether Peter is old enough to drink.

“How old are you?” Thor asks, carefully examining the youth’s face in the torchlight as if he can guess Peter's age by the lines of his face (or rather, the lack thereof).

Peter lifts the tankard to his lips. “Turned nineteen just before I came here. Why?” He drinks.

Thor’s face darkens as he considers his answer. It is quite young. An Asgardian of that age would be a veritable toddler, but perhaps–

“And for a Midgardian… that is above the age of majority?”

Peter’s face scrunches in confusion. “The what now?”

“Are you of an age that your people would consider an adult?” Thor clarifies.

Peter nods. “Yeah, eighteen’s an adult on Earth, though the man who sort of raised me figured me old enough by the time I was sixteen. He bought me my first blow job and one drink for each year of my age on my birthday. I threw up after the third one. Kra– the others said I would never be a good… pirate if I couldn’t even stomach half my age in gutrot. I’m much better at it now,” he says, chugging his third ale for the night with no obvious signs of impairment. The Asgardian steins are much larger than he’s used to, but he had built up his tolerance to withstand it. At this point, sheer liquid volume would be more of an issue than actual alcohol content.

Thor smiles. “I think I will turn in early tonight,” he hints, staring directly at Peter.

 _Perfect,_ Peter thinks. With the Destroyer temporarily out-of-commission, it is the optimal time to obtain a tooth, contact his employer, and arrange transport out of the palace. Though he will miss Asgard, he had been away from the Eclector far too long. He just needs to somehow excuse himself as well without arousing anyone’s suspicions.

“Would you like to accompany me back? It seems I am quite drunk,” Thor continues, already snaking an arm over Peter’s shoulder to lean on him a bit.

Peter blinks at Thor, momentarily stunned by his good fortune.

“Yeah, sure thing,” he says, standing to help the prince up.

_That was easy._

They exit the Great Hall, the sounds of merriment fading into a rumble in the background as they ascend the stairs towards Thor’s chambers. It seems Thor had overestimated his inebriation, because once they had turned the corner, he appeared to have sobered up and now walked unaided, pausing only to ensure Peter himself didn’t require assistance.

“You are not impaired, I hope,” Thor asks him, eyeing his steady gait to confirm Peter’s relative sobriety.

“Naw; that was barely anything at all. You know I can hold my booze, so you don’t have to worry I’ll drown in my own vomit or anything like that. It’s been a long day, and we have an early start tomorrow if you still want to show me how the sunrise casts rainbow prisms over the waterfall, so I’ll just head back for some shut-eye after I drop you off.” Peter had thought it strange the way Thor wouldn’t quite look at him when he suggested the activity, and for a moment, he worried that the man was planning to punt him off the edge, Old-Yeller style. That was a ridiculous notion as Thor gave no indication he knew about Peter’s duplicitous nature. In the end, Peter had agreed to it, taking every opportunity to spend time with Thor now that there was an expiration date on their friendship.

They’re in front of the door to the prince’s chambers already. He can drop Thor off, get his shit, and be at the vault in less than ten minutes. There should only be a couple guards on staff, most having joined the festivities in the Great Hall below. It’s really the best chance he has of pulling off this job.

Thor pulls the door open, stepping across the threshold before looking back at Peter.

If he’s being honest with himself, Peter will miss this – miss Thor – when it’s all over. He stares at the other man, trying to memorize the cut of his chin, that slight smile, and the wet softness in his eyes shining in the torchlight. He wants to remember him, just like this.

Thor palms the door frame and leans forward slightly, towards Peter. “Would you be opposed to having another drink with me in my chambers, Lord of Stars?”

Huh, that’s odd. Thor just left his party where many varieties of ale, mead, and beer flowed freely. Why would he–

Oh.

_Ohhhhhhhhh._

Peter can feel his cheeks flush, and his throat go dry. The Vault, the serpent’s tooth, and the promise of 2.5 million credits become a faint memory, lost to the opportunity of the present moment.

“…Yes,” he hears himself saying as Thor steps aside, holding the door open. The vault can wait a few more hours, Peter thinks as he crosses into his room, stopping halfway to the bed.

He hears the heavy door close behind him followed by the tinkling of glasses as Thor walks to one side to pour two drinks from his personal stash perched on a large chest to one side. “This is a very fine mead. It was brewed centuries ago on the occasion of my first great victory by fermenting honey from the hives of Vanaheim together with pomegranate and ambrosia, the fruit of the Gods.”

“Uh huh.” Peter absently takes a sip. It’s full-bodied and bitter with the bite of liquor, finishing slightly sweet on his tongue, much better than the toilet hooch he had grown accustomed to on the Eclector.

“What do you think?” Thor inquires, his gaze still trained on Peter’s face over the top of his own glass. Peter gets the sense he isn’t just talking about the mead.

Thor drops his arm, still loosely gripping the glass from above as he waits for his verdict.

“It’s good… Unexpected, but good,” Peter says, biting his tongue on any further commentary before he fucks up whatever is about to happen. Maybe he’s reading this all wrong. Thor, Prince of Asgard, God of Thunder, couldn’t possibly mean…

“Would it be too forward of me if I said I would very much like to kiss you?”

Peter gulps, his pupils blown. He leans forward, mouth parted, which Thor takes as a yes.

“Stop me at any time,” he murmurs, before closing the distance, embracing Peter and capturing his lips in a desperate kiss. Peter kisses back. Unsure of what to do with his hands, he loosely encircles Thor’s torso unable to find access through his ever-present armor.

Thor is more confident, his hands mapping out the muscles of Peter’s back as one slips under his shirt at the waist, pushing the fabric up, and the other slides down his lower back. Peter jumps reflexively when the traveling hand ghosts over his ass.

Thor breaks the kiss.

“I apologize. That was too far,” he says, already backing up.

“No! No… it’s– it’s okay. I’m just… I don’t know. It’s a lot to take in. I never thought you… and me… and…” Peter is babbling, and to his abject horror, he can’t seem to stop the flow of words. “I mean… Stars! Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Of course I’d really like to, but… um… you see…”

Thor has a queer look on his face. Stars, Peter is blowing this.

“Have you never…” he begins.

Peter is mortified, rushing to assure Thor of his bonafide sexual experience. “No! I mean yes, I’ve had sex before, just not with–” _a man_ “–someone who can break me in half without even trying.” He’s no virgin, though this situation is entirely unexplored territory for him.

Thor’s expression of concern morphs into a small smile at the corner of his mouth, as if he is holding back laughter. Peter wants to die all over again.

“I’ll be gentle.”

Thor reaches out to lightly stroke the back of his curled fingers down Peter’s cheek, his thumb coming to rest at his chin as he looks into his eyes. Peter worries his bottom lip between his teeth, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows at the contact.

Thor interprets nerves as trepidation and backs up, disengaging completely from Peter.

“This is an invitation, freely given and just as freely refused, if you so desire,” he says, fully aware of the implications with which his young guest and most-recent friend may be struggling. Peter’s position, his very life, depends on Thor’s favor. Peter may fear his displeasure carries certain consequences. Thor rushes to disabuse him of such notions, “Refusal does not affect your standing with me nor your station in my retinue.”

Peter steps forward, placing a hand on Thor’s bicep to stop his retreat. “No, no, I get that, and I want to. It’s just…” _how does it even work between two men?_ Peter understands the basic mechanics, of course – he’s walked in on his fair share of closet shenanigans on the Eclector – but how do they decide…

Thor kisses him again. Sweeping him in close, he leads him backwards, and when the back of Peter’s knees hit the bed, causing him to stumble down atop the linens and furs lain neatly across, Peter props himself up on his elbows to stare up at the man still standing at the foot of the bed. Thor’s eyes are half-lidded but determined as he quickly unfastens his leather armor and steel plates, letting them fall to the floor to reveal the dark tunic underneath. He fluidly plants one knee on either side of Peter, quickly pulling the tunic over his head and tossing it behind him to join his armor on the floor. Peter doesn’t have long to appreciate the view before Thor bends over, kissing him again and running his hands under Peter’s shirt to bunch it around his armpits. He circles a coarse thumb over Peter’s nipple, causing the younger man to gasp.

“You like that,” Thor rumbles into the space between their mouths before he moves down to suck at Peter’s chest, pulling the shirt up to help him shrug it off completely.

His own dick having long risen to the occasion, Peter can feel Thor’s erection gently thrusting against his pelvis. Experimentally, he slips his hand inside Thor’s pants, feeling the girth and length of him and vaguely wondering if he will fit. Thor takes that as an invitation to slip his pants off as well, hovering naked over Peter’s prone form.

Peter’s eyes drop from Thor’s broad chest down his chiseled abdomen, following the dirty-blonde happy trail down until he sees… it.

_Nope. There’s no way it’s going to fit._

But Thor is already pulling Peter’s pants down, taking his underwear along with it. He lies naked under Thor, suddenly acutely aware of the man’s body and what is about to occur.

Thor reaches over to his nightstand, pumping some lube into one hand and rubbing it warm, he kisses Peter again, parts his legs with one knee and lovingly strokes Peter’s cock until he feels him melt. He travels further back, under his balls, down his perineum, to part his cheeks.

“You are very tight. Has it been a while?” he grunts low in Peter’s ear, a single slick finger prodding gently at the pucker of his asshole.

“…Yeah.”

If by ‘a while,’ he means ‘never,’ then it’s not technically a lie.

Peter feels outclassed, too embarrassed that he can’t relax beneath this gorgeous man and genuinely worried that he can’t please him due to inexperience. He needs to do something – anything – to take his mind off his impending penetration.

“Kiss me,” he pants.

Thor obliges, the scruff of his beard scratching the younger man’s chin as he deepens their kiss, tangling his tongue with Peter’s, his free arm holding him close. Thor is kissing him like Peter means something to him, and the feeling blanks Peter’s mind of doubt and intelligent thought, stealing his breath away.

As his body relaxes, Thor's finger presses in, slowly fucking Peter up to the first joint then to the second as his ass loosens. His thumb massages small circles against Peter’s inner thigh to soothe him. Thor’s lips leave Peter’s to trail sloppy open-mouth kisses down into the hollow of his neck as he sucks on his pulse point. Caught up in the moment, Peter barely notices when his ass sits flush against the palm of Thor’s hand, his lone finger fully inserted, stretching the passage with minute thrusts. However, when Thor pulls out back to the second joint and slightly curls his finger to brush against a smooth bump, Peter gasps loudly and shudders, gripping so tightly to Thor, he leaves his mark pressed in his back.

As Thor continues, ensuring not to hit Peter’s prostate on every thrust, he strokes his own erection with his other hand, neglecting his lover’s straining dick. Peter reaches down, intending to touch himself.

Thor whispers to him: “Not yet.”

Taking heed, Peter ropes his arm back around Thor’s neck, gritting his teeth and concentrating on the feeling building inside him. His skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead and body radiating heat.

“You’re so beautiful like this, Lord of Stars,” Thor groans into his neck. “So perfectly responsive. May I…?” He angles his dick so the knuckles on his pumping hand glance Peter’s inner thigh.

Moaning, Peter mindlessly ruts back against the contact and nods his head, too far gone to verbalize his need in the moment.

“What was that?” Thor asks, modifying his thrusts to an achingly slow pace. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Just… fuck me already, damn it.”

Thor sits up slightly, depositing more lube into his free hand to quickly slick himself before removing his finger to line up his erection with Peter’s loosened hole and press in slowly.

Thor feels bigger than his finger had been, but aware of his partner’s _recent_ abstinence, he goes slow. Peter sucks in a breath, exhaling on a shudder. His embrace becoming tighter, he buries his face in the man’s shoulder, wanting to sink his teeth in as Thor stretches him further, rocking into him minutely until he’s inside, deeper and fuller than his finger had been moments ago. When Peter relaxes and his grip slackens, Thor continues his thrusts, rolling his hips into his lover while reveling in the tight, warm sensation, worshipping Peter’s chest and neck with his mouth, with his tongue, like he can’t believe his good fortune.

Peter moans loudly, his skin over-sensitized and body trembling with pleasure washing over him in roiling waves. He thinks he can feel every hair follicle standing on end as the intense pressure builds within him, taking him to the precipice of orgasm, but never tipping over, until he feels ready to burst. He’s never felt this way before. Not when he visited the talented whores of Kovecks nor with the pleasure-bots of Contraxia programmed to fulfill his every need. Part of this is obviously because he had never even thought to utilize several of the erogenous zones Thor is currently taking advantage of, winding his body up into a shameless mess of need and desire. But Peter suspects a larger factor is a deeper, more disturbing cause: Thor himself. Their camaraderie, the time they spent together, the mutual trust and respect… it made for a better connection, more exploration than he would have afforded a more-transactional experience.

When Peter tentatively bucks back against him, Thor speeds up, propped up on one hand planted under Peter’s armpit, back arched like a cat, and forehead resting against Peter’s chest. Pounding into his prepped ass, he then wraps his fingers around Peter’s dick bouncing between their bodies, stroking the painfully hard member in time with his thrusts.

Peter doesn’t last long after that, screaming as he cums in voluminous white spurts, coating Thor’s abdomen and chest. His short fingernails tear raised angry-pink ribbons in Thor’s back. Thor’s hips hitch as he follows shortly after, emptying himself inside. When he withdraws slowly, Peter feels the warm rush of cum spilling from his hole onto the sheets beneath.

Thor rolls onto his back beside Peter, limp and sated, catching his breath before dropping an arm over the side of the bed to clumsily knock open a large drawer and lazily rummage around within it. Searching blindly by touch, he finds what he is after, producing two clean cloths.

 _Of course he has a post-sex box,_ Peter thinks distantly. _Always prepared, like a stars-damned boy scout._

Thor circles the cloth along Peter’s stomach where his cum had dripped from Thor’s body down to his own before he gently parts Peter’s legs to wipe him down between his thighs. With the other cloth, he cleans Peter's cum from his own torso. Afterwards, he balls up both and tosses them into an open-top laundry basket with practiced ease.

“You do that often?” Peter asks, voice still gruff and scratchy from his orgasm.

Thor doesn’t answer. Instead, he lies back down, snuggling up against Peter, throwing one leg across his lover’s lower body to curl into him.

“Would you like to stay?” he mumbles into Peter’s sweat-soaked hair.

Peter knows he means for the night, but in the fuzzy thought processes of fucked-out bliss, he imagines a more permanent arrangement.

He nods.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys. Real talk: Having no prostate of my own, I had to look up how to execute a prostate orgasm and what one would feel like (especially the first time you’re able to pull it off), and this is pretty much the result. Basically, I had to research this so now my ad suggestions will probably be a bunch of sex toys. 
> 
> You’re welcome.


	5. (Missed) Opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter misses his window of opportunity to complete his heist. He’s despondent until Thor takes it upon himself to cheer him up. Things go awry almost immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it grew another chapter. No, I’m not sorry.

**Eighteen Years Prior**

Peter wakes the following morning to a warm body pressed against his back and a deep ache between his legs, a reminder of the prior night’s activities. The room is still dark, meaning it’s likely before dawn. He just needs to carefully slip Thor’s loose hold, gather his things, and quickly wash off the musk of their combined sex, which should leave him plenty of time to pull of the heist of his criminal career before the palace residents awaken to nurse their likely hangovers. However, when he manages to wiggle loose from Thor’s hold and sit up, he sees it: a single ray of sunlight filtering through the lacquered slats of the window dressings, casting a bright stripe across the floor beyond the foot of the bed.

Fuck. He overslept.

“Come back to bed, Lord of Stars,” Thor mumbles, still half-asleep, as he reaches out a hand to push Peter back down and into the warm cocoon of blankets and his embrace. As Thor pulls him in closer, Peter becomes aware of the man’s morning erection pressed against his hip.

“It’s late,” Peter tells him.

“There is no rush. We may have missed the sunrise today, but there is always the morrow,” Thor yawns and kisses his shoulder. “The day is young still, and I am quite content with you in my arms.”

Peter slips out of his hold, sitting up once again. “I should be getting back before anyone sees, and… you know… talks.”

“Are you embarrassed to be seen emerging from my chambers, disheveled in last night’s clothing?” Thor asks tentatively. There’s something in his voice that prevents Peter from immediately exiting his bed.

“Well, no… but aren’t you?” _Did Thor really need him to point out the obvious?_ “You’re a prince, and I’m… you know. Not.”

“You are the prince of my heart,” Thor replies, his tone sincere, solemn.

It’s a really sweet sentiment that makes Peter’s stomach flip, and he would love to explore that, but right now, he has a vault to break into, a tooth to extract, and 2.5 million credits to cash in on.

At Peter’s silence, Thor speaks up again: “Was that overdoing it?”

“Maybe a little, but it’s kind of nice.” And it is. No one has ever expressed such interest in Peter before. Well, not since Yondu flayed the last Ravager who was a bit too friendly with the too-young child. None of the crew dared approach him in such a fashion after that, not even when Yondu declared Peter of age. No one wanted to take that risk. Not that Peter was complaining. The Eclector’s crew is an ugly lot, inside and out, but Thor…

“I can’t interest you in a lie-in? I’ll make it worth your while,” Thor says, tickling Peter’s hip, before slipping his hand towards the front to give Peter’s dick a lazy stroke.

The Destroyer will be down for two days, and it’s only been a little over a day. Peter has time.

He settles back into bed as Thor burrows down under the blanket, taking Peter’s dick in his mouth and swirling the tip with his talented tongue. The scratch of his beard is an odd, but not unwelcome sensation, especially when accompanied by lips and warm wetness.

Thor strokes the shaft fully erect, licking a stripe up the side before he swallows down the length, sloppily laving the head and sides with broad swipes of the flat of his tongue as he slides down and back up again while alternating manual strokes. His other hand travels back to cup Peter’s balls then slips down between his cheeks to tease the rim of his entrance. When Peter’s body clenches, still unused to anal play, Thor retreats to stroke his hip instead, soothing him before returning to fondle his thighs, his balls, his stomach.

Peter moans, tangling his fingers in Thor's long hair to brush it away from his face. He can feel his orgasm building with every caress, every pass of the man's hands and tongue. Thor looks up, making eye contact occasionally, checking on Peter’s enjoyment, testing various strokes, different touches and gauging minute changes in his reaction, refining and optimizing his technique.

His hand travels up to massage a nipple, forcing an irresistible keening noise from Peter’s throat. Thor does it again, combining it with other moves he’s learned Peter likes until Peter feels himself careening over the edge, emptying himself into Thor’s mouth. Thor swallows and wipes the mix of saliva and spill-over cum from his lips with the back of his hand before fluidly rising up to lie next to a dazed Peter, looking quite smug.

 _Fuck. That will be a hard act to follow,_ Peter thinks. It’s a shame that he will never be able to return to Thor’s bed after today.

He gives himself a full twenty minutes to recover before regrettably leaving the warmth of Thor’s bed to get dressed.

“Okay, now I really have to go.” Peter’s gait is wobbly as he fumbles for his pants, untangling them from Thor’s own cast-off clothing at the foot of the bed to pull them on and up.

“Alright. I will see you at tonight’s festivities, Michael Knight,” Thor agrees, smirking at the way Peter blushes down to his chest.

“Yeah sure.” He won’t, but there’s no reason to ruin Thor’s morning so soon. He steps forward towards the door, pulling his shirt on along the way. He pauses at the exit, looking back at Thor still in his bed, naked to his chest, his long blond hair puffed and flattened in unflattering angles from their earlier activities. He’s absolutely perfect, and this will be the last time Peter sees him like this, if he ever sees him again at all.

Thor leans back, casually framing his head with one bent arm, putting his broad chest and toned stomach on display. “Stay, and enjoy the view for a spell,” he half-jokes.

It’s tempting.

“I really should go,” Peter repeats. He exits through the door, closing it behind him with a soft click.

However, on his way down the stairs, he passes the guards previously stationed outside the Vault. His head whips back to catch them.

“Changing of the guard?” Peter asks. Fresh guards meant alert guards.

One of them turns, recognizing Peter as Thor’s most recent favorite, before answering: “The Allfather, in his wisdom and boundless generosity, has worked through the night to undo Prince Loki’s enchantment and relieve us from our duties so all can enjoy the second day of the festival.”

Peter feels his heart drop.

His window of opportunity has closed. The Destroyer is back in play…

That’s what Peter gets for thinking with his dick.

 

* * *

 

When Thor doesn’t see Peter at breakfast, he seeks him out, later finding him despondent in his room.

“Are you unwell, Lord of Stars?” Thor asks, approaching the prone figure.

“Huh? No… I’m fine,” Peter says, burying his face in a pillow. How could he have been so foolish as to have let the best opportunity to prove himself to the Ravagers slip through his fingers?

Thor runs a hand over Peter’s back in a comforting motion. “Are you having any regrets?”

“Yes,” Peter admits. When he feels Thor’s fingers on his back falter in surprise then withdraw, he clarifies, “Not about the sex. That was amazing. It’s something else completely unrelated to what we did last night.” But he’s not particularly convincing, especially since it’s not strictly true. Had he not chosen to sleep with Thor, he could have completed his mission and been halfway back to the Eclector by now, 2.5 million credits richer, ready to reap the praise of Yondu and his compatriots.

“I… apologize if I pushed you too far,” Thor says somberly. He doesn’t touch Peter again, afraid to compound the damage he has already, irreparably caused. “I know you have been celibate for quite some time, and I am sorry if I hurt you by going too fast too soon. It was not my intention to harm you. If you need me to leave–”

“No! I mean… no, you don’t need to leave.” He’s stuck in Asgard for the time being. He doesn’t want to alienate his greatest friend and asset here. “You’re fine. This is fine. I just fucked up, like always.”

If only Kraglin could see him now: Li’l Quill, Captain’s useless pet Terran and perennial screw-up.

“It’s not your fault, young Michael. I shouldn’t have leveraged my implicit power over you to coerce you into sex. It was wrong.”

“Stars, you never listen,” Peter grumbles. “You didn’t coerce me into doing shit. I wanted to, so I did. End of story.”

“Then why do you prostrate yourself so?”

“Unrelated reasons. Not everything is about you,” he snaps. Peter sits up and sighs, steepling fingers to his forehead. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry; it’s just…”

 _I’m Star-Lord, legendary outlaw across the galaxy,_ he had claimed when he was small but paradoxically too big for his britches. _More like star-munch,_ Horuz had replied, licking his chops as he poked the boy’s baby fat. Perhaps the Ravagers are right; maybe Peter is just a stupid kid whose best and most defining skill is serving as an emergency food source.

“Is there anything I could do to help you feel better?” Thor tries again

 _Take out the Destroyer,_ but Peter can’t ask for that.

“Make me see stars,” he says instead, rising to kiss him, hand ghosting over Thor’s groin.

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

“–and when the sun rose over Asgard, it created the most beautiful medley of rainbows of all sizes across the surface and over the edge, magnifying the effect of the BiFrost Bridge,” Thor tells Gamora as she gently extends his arm to stretch the muscles and to ensure full range of motion.

“It sounds lovely,” she says.

Thor hisses, his arm falling short of full extension.

“It was one of the most beautiful sights that now exist only in my memory,” he adds, pushing though the last ten degrees to fully straighten out.

She bends his arm again and lets him shake out the residual aches. “I remember the plazas and green cliffs of Zen-Whoberi from my childhood, before Thanos laid waste to our cities and populace. It must have been hard to have seen your homeland decimated.”

“It was indeed, but it was necessary for the survival of my people,” Thor replies.

Gamora doesn’t tell him that that had been Thanos’s reasoning as well, but she gathers from his stories that the circumstances of Asgard’s destruction had been much different.

“You have a kind heart, Lady Gamora, to still have compassion for others when you have personally lost so much,” Thor continues. He’s staring at his elbow as he moves it in all directions, extending and contracting his forearm, to ensure full functionality. “Recovery must have seemed near impossible at the time.”

“It was, but I have found my place here, with the Guardians.”

“And with that man from earlier, Peter Quill, as well,” he states, much too casually.

“Yes, he is a wonderful person. I am very lucky,” Gamora confirms before changing the subject to her most imminent concern. “Thor, we share a common goal: to stop Thanos. Perhaps we can help each other.”

Thor hums low, his mouth opening to answer when he is interrupted.

“I’m sure Thor would like to move along, locate his old team, and hunt down Thanos himself,” Peter says, having just entered the makeshift medbay to find Gamora sitting next to Thor’s cot. “Didn’t you say that Valkyrie woman is the best of the best? So there’s no time to waste.”

Thor’s gaze is steady, calculating. “It’s actually not a bad idea that I stay for the time being. Thank you for the invitation, Lady Gamora,” he says, turning back to Gamora, smiling at her as he accepts her offer.

Peter’s nostrils flair in irritation as he notes that Thor and Gamora are the only two occupants of the room. Thor was with Gamora for stars-know how long. Alone.

“Where’s Drax?” he inquires, searching around for their resident intimacy buffer. He had counted on Drax to do what he does best: Cockblocking, and yet, when his gifts are most needed, Drax inconveniently managed to be elsewhere.

“He is refilling Thor’s glass,” Gamora says pointedly, unappreciative of Quill’s obvious jealousy, as if she would be so faithless as to ravage Thor in the three minutes Drax happened to be out of the room. “Our patient should stay hydrated.”

Just then, Drax taps Peter’s shoulder to signal his return. Peter steps away from the door, allowing the man to pass. “Okay great, he’s back! Gamora, I could use your help contacting Nebula. She’s not responding to either my or Mantis’s messages.”

Perhaps Peter could pawn Thor off on Gamora’s taciturn sister. Nebula is competent, gruff, and best of all, physically far away from the Benatar most of the time. Sure, she is a solo operative and unlikely to appreciate the company. But then again, Gamora is correct in her assertion that Thor would be a boon on a mission to hunt down Thanos, and Thor had a certain way about him he hoped Nebula would find less grating than she would any one of them.

After all, his charm had worked on Peter, all those years ago.

 

* * *

 

**Eighteen Years Prior**

It’s the last night of the Ostara Festival and Peter and Thor are squished together on a communal bench in front of a large bonfire, a long blanket draped over their laps as well as those of three others. Maidens and lads, dressed in white, dance together, leaping and bounding in a crude ballet, but Peter is paying no attention to any of that. Not when Thor is doing something clever with his hands under the blanket while simultaneously watching the spectacle and keeping up with a side conversation between Fandral and Hogun, chiming in with his thoughts on Asgard’s responsibilities towards the outer realms.

“We never did get to see that sunrise,” Peter whispers to him, when he has had enough.

“That is correct, Lord of Stars,” Thor replies. He keeps a straight face, but there’s mischief in his eyes that bystanders might mistake for a reflection of the firelight.

“If we turn in early, we might see it tomorrow.”

“Perhaps...”

They don’t.

“You are insatiable,” Thor tells him twenty-five minutes later, after they had burst through his door and quickly peeled off their clothing.

Peter falls back onto the bed, shrugging off his pants in great urgency. “It’s called being nineteen. Now, come over here, and kiss me already.”

“Gladly.”

 

* * *

 

The following day, they enter the Great Hall, freshly bathed, to find the Warriors Three, Lady Sif, and a newly-released Loki, having served out his short sentence for his Ostara prank.

Loki glances at the two of them and looks as if he had swallowed a frog but disliked the taste and texture of the slimy residue it had left in his mouth.

“Brother, you cannot be serious. The Midgardian of all things?” he exclaims. “I thought you had standards.”

Peter freezes. Was it really that obvious?

His gaze flits over to gauge the others’ responses, finding Volstagg nonplussed, Fandral rolling his eyes, and the remaining two expressionless. Either Hogun and Lady Sif had expected as much or they simply had better pokerfaces than their friends. Thor doesn’t look ashamed. If anything, he looks annoyed.

Loki’s face twisted into an expression of disgust, he admonishes his brother: “You don’t know where it’s been.”

“Hey!” Peter objects. Thor has centuries of experience on Peter. If anything, Peter should be the one concerned about where _he’s_ been. Speaking of which… when was the last time Thor got checked? Was it before or after the birth of Peter’s grandfather?

Thor shrugs off Loki’s rather-hypocritical censure. “Such considerations have never bothered you before or might I remind you of your many indiscretions with more-questionable partners.”

“I have never taken mine home to meet Mother.”

“Only the progeny of those dalliances,” he points out.

“Father likes Slepnir.”

“And Mother likes Michael Knight.”

Loki scoffs. “Mother liked that snake you found in the garden that coiled around your neck and tried to choke the breath from your body.”

“Of course she did,” Thor counters. “That was you!”

Valstagg is the one to break up their verbal sparring. “Friends, friends! Who among us hasn’t dipped their quill in the inkwell of another realm. Why, I have a bonny dwarf in Nidavellir I still correspond with from time to time–”

“Yes, we know. You never shut up about her,” Hogun grumbles.

“She does make the best daggers,” Fandral allows.

“Point is… who one man chooses to sleep with is not the business of anyone other than his partner. This isn’t an issue that should divide brothers.” Standing between them, Valstagg claps both Loki and Thor on their backs, pushing them closer together.

“Truce?” Thor offers.

Loki accepts with a nod, but the way he eyes Peter is nothing less than threatening.

Peter unconsciously touches the outline of the talisman under his shirt. He might have to brush up on his protection spells and start wearing chainmail, just in case.

 

* * *

 

Peter infers that Thor still feels guilty about how their fling began as the man gets it in his head that he should give Peter things to make up for his blunder. It’s really the only explanation for what happens several days later.

“I have prepared a gift for you, Lord of Stars.” Thor passes Peter his discarded pants, pulling up his own and picking through the rest on the floor to find his armor.

Peter tosses Thor his undershirt. It smacks him in the face and falls over his head, making Peter laugh. “I like gifts,” he says, wondering what it could be. Perhaps it’s gold. Or Loki repellant. “So…”

“It’s a surprise. Get dressed.”

Thor leads him out the palace, all the while Peter questioning their destination and what his gift could possibly be.

“Is it a chariot?” Peter guesses as they pass the stables.

“No,” he answers in good humor. “Though if you would like a ride, the carriage house is open to you.”

They pass the gardens. “Is it a rose garden?” He vaguely remembered that had been a romantic gesture on Earth.

“No. Be patient, Lord of Stars.”

“It’s a statue built in my honor,” Peter declares in mock excitement as they approach the city center, his guesses becoming increasingly more ridiculous the longer Thor refuses to divulge the secret. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“It is not a statue.”

They exit the gates and cross the Rainbow Bridge to the Observatory at its terminus.

Peter looks around for his promised gift, finding only a barren room. “So… you got me my very own room very far away from you?” Well, not exactly empty. He spies the Observatory’s sole occupant, Heimdall, dressed in traditional uniform. “And a roommate,” he amends.

Thor snakes an arm around Peter’s waist, pulling him in closer. “Not exactly… Heimdall, open the bridge.”

Peter screams as he feels his body rip from reality, hurdling headlong down a tube of light, clutched tightly in Thor’s arms, his only anchor in an experience devoid of sense or logic. He’s falling up into the great unknown, like it’s his abduction all over again.

Peter stumbles onto the other side, disoriented but steadied by Thor’s grip. They had been in a gilded room only mere seconds ago but were now standing on a grassy plateau, cradled between far-flung mountains grey with mist in one direction and a cliffside dropping into the ocean on the other.

“Where are we?”

Thor looks very pleased with himself. “The scenic fjords of Midgard. If I can locate the nearest chieftan, they may regale my return with a performance by their very best skald on the legends of my father’s deeds. They were quite popular last I was here in my boyhood, though perhaps you would prefer a bard?”

Peter feels ice in his veins that has nothing to do with the chilly morning air. “Do you mean Midgard as in… Earth?”

“Why of course,” Thor confirms. “With your affinity for your planet’s music, I thought you would appreciate a live rendition of your Walkman. Granted, your preferred style is more melodious than I remember. Back then, Midgardian music was more guttural humming and high-pitched–”

But Thor’s words are being drowned out by quickly rising panic. They’re not in Missouri, but there’s blue sky, one sun, and the smell of burned grass overpowered by the salty reek of ocean that reminds him of that time his grandparents took him to New York’s Coney Island. It’s similar enough to make his head swim and the bile rise to the back of his throat.

“Take me back, Thor,” his voice is surprisingly even and measured, considering the turmoil lying just below the surface.

Thor stops, his brow knit in confusion. “But we haven’t even–”

“I said take me back. I can’t be here.” Alarm bleeds into his tone. His breathing quickens.

“I do not understand.”

“I can’t be here while she is not!” Peter stalks back and forth, pacing in the small transportation circle burned into the ground like a caged animal, his face upturned towards the heavens, trying to spot any hint of where they had come from.

Thor is too slow on the uptake, still trying to process his lover’s surprising reaction. “Michael… who…”

Peter doesn’t have the patience to explain. Not here. “Heimdall! Can you hear me? I want to go back!” he yells into the sky, his voice edged with panic. He whips his head over to regard Thor with wild eyes. “Why isn’t this working? Is there some special arrangement of words?” he asks before looking back up to scream, “Beam me up, you son of a bitch!”

Thor’s voice is subdued. “Open the bridge, Heimdall. Take us back.”

Finally, blessedly, Peter feels the disorienting rush of teleportation, as he’s torn away from solid ground once again.

He collapses back into the Observatory, still breathing hard on the floor. When Thor moves to help him up, Peter waves him off. “I’ll be in my room.” He rises to stand on shaky legs then walks out unassisted.

Peter doesn’t emerge from the guest quarters for hours.

Thor knocks, and when Peter still doesn’t respond, he carefully opens the door to peer into the dark room to find the man lying in bed, orange headphones over his ears. Thor steps through the threshold, closing the door behind him before approaching the bed. He feels he should apologize for… something. He’s not quite sure what, but he knows he fucked up.

“I am sorry to have upset you, Michael Knight. Just know that it wasn’t my intention to do so.”

“It’s alright.” It’s not, but Peter lacks the motivation and energy to really get into it with Thor.

Thor draws closer. “I know it’s not my place, but are you in legal trouble on Midgard? I could help you if you let me. My word has weight among your people.”

Peter rolls his eyes and shifts to face away from him. “You’re right. It’s none of your business.”

“All right then.” Thor doesn’t move from his spot, continuing to hover over the youth, waiting for an explanation despite his words to the contrary.

Peter funnels his mixed feelings into his frustration with Thor, concentrating his anger on the man’s attempts to encroach on his grief, as if Peter is not entitled to a well-earned sulk.

“I mean… do you really have to try and fix everything? You can’t swing your hammer or announce your fancy-ass title and have everything just work out all the time, you know. Sometimes something is broken, and that’s just the way it is,” he says, wishing Thor would just leave him alone already.

“Who is she?” Thor asks instead.

“Who is who?”

“You mentioned a woman when we were on Midgard. An old partner? A lover? Someone who abandoned you?” He reaches over to lightly palm Peter’s shoulder.

Peter shrugs him off, his anger unabated.

But Thor persists, “I would never abandon you, Lord of Stars. I swear it to you.”

_That’s it._

“My mother didn’t fucking abandon me! She died, okay?” Peter explodes, sitting up suddenly to confront Thor, his face twisted in rage and hurt. “And unless you are _also_ the God of Resurrections, there’s fuck all you can do about it.”

Thor’s eyes drop to the Walkman hooked at Peter’s waist. “…She gave you that music box, didn’t she? That’s why you came back for it that night.”

“…”

Thor waits, the only sound between them the other man’s audible breathing, before he resolves to listen to what Peter wants instead of trying to fix anything. “It seems I have wounded you further. I will go.”

He moves to leave.

“She loved music, you know.” Peter’s voice is a whisper as the anger falls away from his expression, leaving only pain.

Thor halts.

“When something she liked came on the radio, she’d always rush over to record it, because the songs weren’t always on, and sometimes they’d be gone after only a few play-throughs, you know? Near bowled over gramps a few times trying to get there in time to record the first few notes of the Five Stairsteps,” Peter chuckles despondently at the memory. “When she got sick… she knew she was dying, so she made me a mix tape of her favorites and some others that she said I’d understand when I’m older. She knew she’d never get to see me grow… and then, when she… died, I was taken, and this was the only thing from her I had on me. I don’t even have a photo of her, just this.” Peter taps his Walkman.

“I am sorry I had it taken from you back then,” Thor says, “It must have been very painful to be without it.”

To Peter’s horror, he can’t seem to stem the tide of words and feelings spilling out of him. The Ravagers never wanted to hear it. Yondu himself didn’t have the patience for such soft irrelevancies after the first two weeks post-abduction, not when he needed to teach Peter to be like them, to survive. But now, here with Thor, he had found a willing ear.

“You know what’s the worst part? She used to be so alive… so bright and full of laughter and music,” Peter’s voice cracks, “but I barely remember her that way anymore. When I think of her, I mostly remember the cancer ward and the treatments and how sick she was near the end. Her hair had all fallen out, and her voice had turned weak and raspy, and some days, I’d just crawl into her hospital bed and listen to her heartbeat ticking the remaining seconds of her life away. I don’t want to remember her like that. I want to remember how she was before when times were good, but I can’t, not without that other stuff coming through. And it’s like… I know Earth is different now. I’ve been gone over ten years, and it’s changed, but I remember how it was before. The TV shows, the local Dairy Queen, the music… I recall how it was back then, and it’s perfect, but what if I go back, and everything is different? I want to remember Earth as it was when she was there, not as it is now. And that’s why I can’t go back. I just can’t. You understand?”

Thor doesn’t – not really anyway, not when he has a home and a living family to love him – but he understands enough.

“You will never have to go back there again,” he promises, gathering his lover into his strong arms.

Peter relaxes in his embrace, trusting Thor to keep his word.


	6. Hey Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor is a flirt. Peter is jealous. Some things never change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Spirit in the Sky is on Awesome Mix Vol 1, but it is not in the movie.

**Eighteen Years Prior**

Peter opens up to Thor more after that.

“And what is this one, Michael?” Thor asks him, listening to the Walkman as they lay in bed. They hadn’t even had sex yet that day. “I very much enjoy the ‘hook’ of this one and its uplifting chorus.”

Peter doesn’t have to check which track he’s on. He can hear the upbeat rhythm of _Spirit in the Sky_ emanating softly from the headphones next to him.

“I don’t really listen to that one much,” he replies, shifting closer to Thor to palm the Walkman.

“Why not? It is quite lovely,” Thor asks.

_That’s where I’m gonna go when I die. When I die and they lay me to rest–_

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Skip?”

Peter fast-forwards through the track, pausing before the first clanging notes of _Moonage Daydream_ with practiced precision. It is not the first time he has had to do this. Thor doesn’t comment on that fact. Whether it is because it is a sensitive subject or he is simply unaware, Peter doesn’t know, but Thor always made him feel heard, made him feel safe.

That is not to say they didn’t have their disagreements.

It had started with a visiting dignitary and his retinue from the tributary realm of Vanaheim. Thor had been a key member of the party welcoming Bruga the Unyielding to Asgard.

“Lord Bruga, long has it been since you graced our court. I hope you found the journey tolerable, if not pleasing,” Thor greets the elder. The man in question is broad and muscular with a protruding gut, dressed in leathers with a cape edged in dark fur. Well into middle age, white peppers his mustache and scraggly beard as well as the long black hair swept into a neat bun under his fur-trimmed pointed cap.

“Thor, son of Odin,” Bruga addresses him, before his gaze rests on Hogun beside him. “I see you have brought your trained hound,” he sneers.

Hogun stays stoic, his ever-present frown unchanged despite the slight. Peter supposes it would be in poor form for him to sock a representative of his own home-world, particularly since his status among his people appears to be questionable at best.

“With all due respect, that is quite the harsh assessment of one of your finest to come out of Vanaheim,” Thor replies instead, coming to his friend’s defense. “Hogun is a valuable asset and an accomplished warrior in his own right.”

Still glaring at the resident Vanir, Bruga ruminates aloud, “I suppose it’s in the blood. His father and brothers were mighty warriors of Vanaheim and served well and honorably, distinguishing themselves in battle. Had they survived the war, I am sure they would be proud to know how well the boy serves Asgard.”

This Bruga the Unyielding is clearly an ass and a hard nut to crack. Peter doubts even Thor can make significant headway in negotiating with the man before he tires of useless flattery and calls forth his hammer to do the talking for him. It is true, Thor favors Vanaheim, but his patience is limited. Peter gives it an hour before he cracks.

 

* * *

 

He should have known better. If there were two things he learned never to bet against, it was Valstagg’s appetite and Thor’s exceptional charm when he chose to truly apply himself to the challenge.

“Another!”  Thor calls out, smashing his empty tankard to the ground. “And another for my friend here!” he says, jostling a drunk Bruga the Unyielding around the shoulders. Peter sits at the far end of the table, having been bumped down by the ambassador’s entourage.

Thor barely looks in his direction all night, too busy regaling Bruga with tales of his past deeds with the Warriors Three, subtly embellishing Hogun’s merits and his love of Vanaheim. Thor sits much too close to the older man, resting a too-friendly arm across his shoulders as he murmurs private jokes between the two of them, too softly for Peter to hear from his vantage point, but Bruga’s face breaks into what might pass for a smile among the Vanir at something Thor says.

Preoccupied as he is, Thor may not have noticed Peter’s gaze, but Loki does, and when he passes by the end of the table on his way out, Loki plants a firm hand on the youth’s shoulder.

“It appears my brother has found a new favorite,” he says, “You had a good run, but perhaps it’s time you moved on.” Loki squeezes Peter’s shoulder then pats it before continuing on his way out the Great Hall.

Peter wants to be angry at Loki, but the man is right. No matter how many times he learns the same lesson, it never ceases to wound him, though it cuts deeper this time.

He arises from his seat, making his excuses before retreating to an outdoor hall to get some air and contemplate his next move. He still has the talisman, and his progress with cloaking spells is slow but steady, though he wonders how long the Queen will entertain his company now that Thor’s interest in him appears to be waning. She does like him on his own merit, but still... he swallows the lump in his throat. His position here is tenuous at best.

He is looking out the balustrade over the city when strong arms wrap around his middle and hot breath tickles the back of his ear. Peter elbows the man in the stomach.

“Ooof!” Thor backs off as Peter turns to deliver a right hook across his face, which Thor blocks.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Peter exclaims, his fight response receding and his breathing evening out as soon as he recognizes his assailant.

“My mistake,” Thor admits, straightening up with no residual ache, as if Peter’s defensive strike to his middle did little more damage than that of an infant’s.

Peter wishes he had the power to really hurt him.

“You left early, and I thought you could use some company.” Thor moves in to stroke his upper arm against the night-time chill.

Peter slaps his outstretched hand away and turns away to face outward once again, towards the city and the Observatory in the distance. He will have to deal with Heimdall’s omniscience if he is to get away with his prize.

Instead of leaving, Thor settles in next to Peter, leaning forward against the balustrade to look over his kingdom. “What is the matter, Lord of Stars? You are very quiet tonight.”

Peter tries to keep his tone light, but it’s tinged with resentment. “I’m surprised you noticed. With your old friend back in town, you talk enough for the both of us.”

Thor faces him. “Are you… you are jealous, aren’t you?”

“I’m not jealous. I just call it like it is. You like your lays exotic, and that’s okay, you know; it’s fine. I mean, what we have? It’s just sex. It’s not like we’re going steady or whatever the Asgardian equaivalent is,” Peter says with some vehemence, failing to play it cool despite his words.

“Courting.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, sure. _Courting._ That’s not what we’re doing, right?” He knows the truth, but he still needs verbal confirmation, so he can lick his emotional wounds until they scar over firmer than before.

Thor’s expression is impassive. “If that is what you desire–”

“It’s not about what I want,” he says, suddenly angry. There is no way Thor is getting off that easy, as if the terms of their fling are dictated solely by Peter. “Relationships are like nuclear launches. Two people need to turn their keys and make an active decision to throw their world into chaos.”

Thor crosses his arms and leans against a column. “I don’t quite understand the metaphor, but I can appreciate the underlying meaning. It is apparent you have a healthy view of relationships.”

“I have a realistic view,” Peter insists.

Yondu had set him straight the first time Peter fucked a prostitute and mistook it for love. _How much money do I have in my accounts?_ Peter had asked him, trying to play coy. _Enough. Why?_ Yondu had inquired. _No reason,_ but Peter was palming the hickey that Neerah had given him, entertaining stupid thoughts of wooing her. _No,_ Yondu had simply replied, reading Peter’s intentions. _Forget about her, son. She was hired to do a job, an’ she did that job well… maybe a bit too much so, if the stars in yer eyes are any indication._ Peter had protested, _But I think she really likes me. We listened to my Walkman, and we really connected._ She had even stroked his hair and called him a sweet boy when he had explained the Walkman was his mother’s. _Don’t be stupid. She was paid to care, Quill,_ he had told him. _She likes me for real._ But when Peter returned two months later, Neerah had forgotten him, following Half-Nut into a backroom.

Yondu had been right.

He continues, “Sex is just sex. It doesn’t mean anything.”

This assertion doesn’t sit well with Thor. “That’s not what your music box says.”

“Maybe that’s how things work on Earth, but out here… it’s a whole ‘nother ballgame, you know? Out here, everyone is just in it for themselves, and if two people have a mutually beneficial arrangement, then you enjoy it while it lasts, and try not to hope for too much because they’ll always let you down,” Peter explains, not quite looking at the other man. He was an idiot back then for expecting sex to mean more than it did, and he’s an idiot now for thinking Thor would be any different. Space rules for this sort of thing were different than what Mom had been raised him to believe.

Thor looks at him with knitted brow and narrowed eyes, a slight frown gracing his face, like he can see exactly what Peter is thinking, and he doesn’t like it.

“That’s not to say I’m disappointed or anything. Far from it.” Peter scratches the back of his neck, thinking better of this little tete-a-tete. “You know what? Forget I said anything, okay?”

This is already an embarrassing faux pas on his part. Now that Thor can infer their fling might have been less-than-casual for him, he’ll disengage. Not too quickly, because Thor fancied himself a gentleman, but the end was inevitable.

“If we can just go back to before this whole conversation, that would be great,” Peter quibbles, trying to cover for his earlier fumble. “You want to fuck around with that Bruga guy – I wouldn’t because have you seen how old he is? I mean he looks like your father – but hey, if you’re into that sort of thing, go nuts. It’s none of my bus–”

“Shut up,” Thor commands, his lips crashing down on Peter’s to silence him. Thor is warm, familiar, tasting of that Vanir mead of which he is so fond – just like the first time. Peter melts into him, his mind going fuzzy, drunk from the memory. Thor breaks away first to rest his forehead against Peter’s.

“Just so you’re aware, if you want more, you are never going to get it by not asking,” he says.  He pulls back after a moment to regard the younger man. “And you don’t have to be concerned about me and Bruga. It’s state craft.”

Peter raises an eyebrow at that. Thor is lucky he’s hot. “It was flirting. You were flirting.”

Thor bites his lip to keep from smiling. “You Midgardians certainly have an odd way of pronouncing _diplomacy_.”

“Do all Asgardians attempt to dazzle the competition with their dicks or is it just you?” Peter’s tone is as flat as his stare.

_So much for diffusing the situation with humor._

Thor sighs. “What is it you want, Lord of Stars?”

Peter considers him, this ridiculously-handsome man who shouldn’t want Peter as much as he seems to. Thor’s gaze is open, earnest and sincere, like he would genuinely like to know.

The feeling is mutual.

“I don’t know,” he replies, eyes downturned and shoulders slouched.

Thor hooks an arm around Peter’s waist, pulling him in close to press another kiss to his forehead.

“We can figure it out.”

 

* * *

 

Things settle into a routine after that, with Peter spending time with Thor’s inner circle by day and tumbling down into bed with the prince by night. Thor always takes his time, mapping out every inch of Peter’s body with his hands, his lips, his tongue, but he’s always gentle, leaving no physical marks on the blank canvas of Peter’s skin, careful of his own strength relative to the fragility of Peter’s Midgardian heritage.

Peter is greedier, young and impatient, pushing back against Thor hard the way he assumes Thor would like to fuck him if he wasn’t trying to be so damn conscientious all the time. Sex is about physical dominance, he thinks, remembering the porn he’d sneak on the sly when he was first starting to masturbate and all the sex he witnessed even later still with the way the Ravagers fucked – quick, rough and bruising – sometimes on the common floor of the brothels where anyone could see.

So, when Peter gets the opportunity to top, he mounts Thor triumphantly, gripping his long hair in a tight fist to push him face down into the mattress, driving into him much too fast at an erratic pace. Thor tries to mellow out Peter’s thrusts from the bottom, trying to slow his overeager thrusts born of exuberance and poor role models, but it’s all over much too quickly. _Um… this doesn’t usually happen to me,_ Peter tries to explain, absolutely mortified. _I’m usually much better._

But he’s not.

When their second attempt the following day starts to go awry even when positioned face-to-face, Thor sits up, pulling Peter into a kiss then toppling him onto his back. From atop Peter’s dick, Thor smoothes out their joining, setting his preferred pace until they’re both spent.

“I’m… just going to do a quick rinse and go, yeah?” Peter says as he slips away.

When he emerges from the bath later, he pulls on his clothes, intending to leave for his room when a half-dressed Thor wordlessly pulls back the blankets of his bed, inviting him inside. Peter takes a long moment to decide before lying down, his back pressed against Thor’s front.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Thor says as they lie entangled together.

Immediately defensive, Peter turns to sit up on his elbows as he looks over at his lover. “I know how to use my dick. I told you I’ve had sex before. Multiple times.”

“With the same person?”

“…Why does that matter?” 

Thor takes that as a resounding _no_.

“Familiarity can enhance the experience. The basic principles of sensation and erotic pleasure are similar based on anatomy, but learning another’s body takes time, practice, and communication. It can be a highly rewarding endeavor, though it does take  **time, practice,** and **communication** ,” he explains patiently, repeating the important points for emphasis.

Peter looks offended. “Hold up… Are- are you saying I suck at sex?”

“That’s a strong statement,” Thor tries for breezy, trying to keep this difficult conversation light. 

Peter lies down, curling forward to fumble with his own zipper. “…Take off your pants. I’ll show you. I’ll rock your world right now.”

Thor obliges.

 

* * *

 

Staring up at the ceiling in the aftermath, Thor exhales slowly. “That was... enlightening.”

“…Alright, _fine_. I see your point,” Peter admits, turning away from Thor.

“I did not speak ill of your…” he struggles to find the word, “Talents.”

“That long pause right there is loud enough.”

Thor runs a comforting hand from Peter’s exposed elbow to his shoulder and back. “Fear not, young Michael; I always enjoy our time together regardless.”

It’s not in Peter’s nature to ask for help or directions; however–

“That’s real nice of you to say, but you think you could show me how to – I don’t know – do the things you do?”

“You wish to learn how to please your partner?”

Peter flips over to face him. “Yeah, that would be awesome.”

“Of course.” Thor says, smiling broadly, as his hand slips further down to rest over Peter’s hip. “We have plenty of time.”

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

Peter looks sourly upon Gamora and Thor, chatting away like old friends. After they failed to contact Nebula yet again, Gamora had gone back to her post only to be joined by Thor, who was up and about, seemingly less injured than he had been a short while before. Peter doesn’t think it’s his imagination when Thor appears to gravitate towards Gamora more than the others, and much to his growing consernation, Gamora attends to their guest like any good host. She smiles at Thor, laughs along with his jokes and stories. Really… who would have thought Peter would have to contend with Thor’s flirtatious nature long after their affair had ended? As much as it had pained him to be on the other side of it, this was so much worse.

Presently, Peter stands in a corner, looking out the port window, listening in on Thor’s conversation while pretending to be fascinated by the vastness of space. He seemed to be doing a lot of that over the past couple days as the Guardians flocked to his charismatic ex.

“Have you ever been to Earth?” Thor asks as he sits between Gamora and Drax across from Mantis, Rocket, and Groot in the common room.

Peter’s back straightens. Early on, Gamora had expressed interest in seeing his home planet, only for him to have vetoed the idea. He had explained his apprehension to her, and she had understood, having witnessed the destruction of Zen-Whoberi herself, and never brought up the subject again.

“No, we have not,” Gamora replies.

“Yeah, if it’s the birthplace of that bozo,” Rocket indicates Quill with a hooked thumb, “then I’ll pass.”

“That is a shame. It is quite lovely in places, and the people there adore me.”

“How could they not? If most of them look like Quill over there, I can see how they would fawn over such a superior specimen of a man as yourself,” Drax joins in, laying it on rather thick in Peter’s opinion. Though knowing Drax, he probably wasn’t so much flirting as stating what he considered an immutable fact.

Thor waves off the compliment. “I am flattered, but the people of Earth are more taken by my recent heroic feats saving their world from my late brother than my physical appearance.”

 _Has Thor always been this boastful or is this a recent development?_ Peter can’t help but wonder.

“You have an evil brother?” Drax asks in surprise. “What a coincidence. Peter and Gamora both have evil fathers. I am certain that that is partly what binds them.” It must be a real epidemic.

“That’s not the only reason she liked me,” Peter objects, approaching the circle of Guardians gathered around Thor. The way Drax phrases it suggests Peter acquired an evil father on purpose in order to flirt with Gamora.

“I am simply pointing out that you two have a lot in common, which may have drawn you two to each other.”

Thor circles back to his original point. “If we are to defeat Thanos, we will have to travel to Earth. That is where my people are heading as well as where Thanos is likely to strike in the near future.”

Peter shakes his head. “New plan. How about we rendezvous with his ship halfway there and take him out before he even gets to Earth?” he suggests.

“And how will we track him? We only know his destination, not his path,” Thor points out sensibly.

“We are not going back to Earth.”

_Thor had promised him._

“We will find another way,” Gamora interjects, siding with Peter. If it came down to it, she will help defeat Thanos no matter the battlefield, but she understood Peter’s reticence. He will be no good to them distracted and may have to remain in orbit for the final battle.

 “Yes, of course,” Thor agrees, but he’s staring a bit too hard at Peter. “And how did you and Peter meet?” he finally asks.

“He had stolen an orb, and I was tasked to retrieve it,” Gamora replies.

That’s not entirely accurate.

“I had actually recovered a powerful orb from a dead civilization, like Indiana Jones, and Gamora here was trying to steal it from me.” Peter corrects her.

Let the record show Peter was the victim in that particular meet-cute.

“Grave-robbing is still stealing,” Gamora points out. “Anyways, we were both sent to the Kyln, where we met the others, and Rocket busted us all out.”

Rocket’s ears perk up at the mention of his name. “And then Quill kept bugging her to date him until she relented,” he adds. “It was a rough four months of rejection, but Star-munch here wore her down with sheer determination and an inability to take no for an answer.”

“It’s not Star-munch. It’s Star–” Peter remembers Thor is aware of his nickname just in time, awkwardly changing course mid-sentence. “It’s just not Star-munch.”

Ignoring Peter’s fumble, Drax nods in agreement with Rocket. “It was truly a painful sight to witness.”

“I am Groot.” _Tell me about it._ Groot doesn’t even look up from his video game, as he crouches at the edge of the bench.

Mantis whispers to Thor from across the table: “It was before my time, but I have heard the stories.”

“That is not what happened,” Quill protests. “There was a mutual attraction. We had an unspoken thing.”

“You had a thing for her which was _not_ unspoken. You wouldn’t shut up about it, and then she felt sorry for you when Yon–” Rocket abruptly stops. He knows Peter still felt guilty about how his dad had died saving him. Rocket may be a professional asshole, but even he had limits.

“…Anyways, it’s been four years, and we’ve never been happier,” Gamora concludes, glossing over old heartaches and joy the subsequent years had brought. She smiles up at Peter, reaching up to run her hands along his forearm in comforting circles. It didn’t matter what the others say. They know the truth.

Gamora had loved him, even before she admitted it to herself.

And Peter?

He recalls late-night conversations, laughter and tears, fights and reconciliations and mutual understandings, too many to count, their intimacy growing deeper and more layered with time until the bond between them became much stronger and more durable than anything he had experienced before. Thor may have helped Peter rediscover his potential to love and be loved, but with Gamora, those lessons had truly bore fruit.

And now, Thor stands before them all: a stronger, more affectionate and courteous, self-assured version of the man Peter strives to become, poised to take her and all he loves away simply by virtue of being _better_.

He can’t let that happen.

Before Thor can spout off more endearing anecdotes and charm his way into Gamora’s heart, Peter abruptly slides into the seat on the opposite side of Gamora. He drapes an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in closer to himself and incrementally away from Thor.

“The happiest,” he agrees with her, but he’s staring at Thor over the top of her head.

Rocket wrinkles his snout. “If you’re going to start scent-marking your territory, Quill, do it in private,” he advises, disdainful of public displays of affection. “And use a tarp.”

“Rocket!” Gamora hisses.

“What?”

“Stars, man,” Peter grumbles. “I’m just trying to show my girlfriend some affection.”

Rocket states the obvious: “Yeah, because you’re threatened by the new guy.”

“I am not threatened,” Peter lies, scooting backwards in his seat to avoid Mantis’s outstretched hand before turning to Gamora. “Hey so, it’s been a long day, how about you and me turn in early? Rocket can take over flying the ship.”

Rocket wants to say something snarky, but he wants flying privileges even more, so he clams up.

Gamora looks at him, still annoyed at his obvious jealousy but recognizing his need for reassurance. “…Alright.”

Thor watches them go. “Good night, Lady Gamora,” –a pause– “ _Peter Quill_. I will see you on the morrow.”

“Good night,” she returns his pleasantries before Peter shuffles her down the hallway and into their shared room.

“What was all that?” Gamora asks him when they are finally alone.

“Nothing… I just thought… Well, you know with Thor here, we haven’t had much time with just the two of us,” Peter tries to explain, gathering her up in his arms like she is the best thing in his life. “Alone. I miss spending time with you – you know…” he sweeps his thumb in circles gently at her waist as he begins to nibble on her shoulder.

Gamora sighs. “I know Thor’s presence makes you feel insecure–”

“Not insecure,” he murmurs against her neck.

She leans away slightly to look him directly in the eye, fondly cupping his cheek with one hand. “But you don’t have to worry. I love you, and I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“I know, Gamora,” Peter whispers, his eyes soft. “I love you, too… so much.” And he does. That’s why he won’t – he can’t – let Thor steal her away.

He kisses her then, translating his feelings into the soft press of lips; his tongue reaches out tentatively to tangle with her’s, deepening when she responds.

 _The key to good sex is communication,_ Thor had said all those years ago. _Not just verbal, but you need to be mindful your partner’s body language. Observe how they respond to your actions to find out what they like._

Peter runs his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp just the way she likes. “Let me,” he breathes into her ear, his other hand dipping to her lower back to stroke soothingly there.

She pushes her hands under his jacket, helping him shrug off the outer layer, then her hands are pulling at his shirt up as well as he undoes her belt with practiced ease. It’s often easy – being with her, loving her. They had learnt each other’s bodies early on, running through old favorite positions, discovering new ones. Thor had been right. While familiarity had allowed experimentation, it had also bred comfort and trust. And though the novelty of their relationship had long since eroded, their passion for each other had polished into a rustic sheen, like an oft-rubbed statue turned golden again from the brush of many hands.

Once stripped to their underclothes, Peter slips his hands under Gamora’s ass, lifting her up and onto the bed, following her descent down to press her gently into the mattress as he kisses her senseless.

 _I am not opposed to getting a bit rough in the bedroom, but there’s an art to it. If I may speak plainly, the trick is not to go as fast as you can manage, never ceasing nor varying your speed,_ Thor had explained all those years ago, casually, confidently planting one leg on either side of Peter’s hips, curling up while simultaneously pulling him down, meeting him halfway with a kiss.

 _Work up to it; tease and talk dirty to me to enhance the fantasy,_ he had whispered close against his lips as he palms Peter’s ass, pulling his pelvis closer between his legs. _Take charge._

And Peter had.

 _You want this. You’ve wanted to take my dick since Day 1, haven’t you?_ Peter had told him, realization dawning as he slipped a thumb into Thor’s entrance to find it slick and still slightly swelled from their encounter only twenty minutes prior. He suspects that Thor must have added more lube while Peter was rinsing off in preparation for this little lesson.

 _Answer me, you dirty whore, you little cockslut,_ he had commanded, pressing in deeper. _Answer me._

Suddenly Thor’s hand was on his own, manually guiding Peter’s thumb to the right spot until he had shuddered: _Yes._

Peter had flipped him over, his knees pressed against the back of Thor’s thighs, the line of his dick nestled between his asscheeks, he thrust past Thor's hole , teasing his lover with the smooth glide of the underside of his dick.

 _Please, Lord of Stars._ Thor’s erection was straining, trapped between his body and the linens underneath him, large and slightly darker than the surrounding skin, finding little relief at the pressure.

 _What do you suppose your subjects would think seeing you like this, begging to take the dick of some Midgardian lowlife?_ Peter had sunk in positioning his dick to hit the spot he had previously identified with Thor’s help. Thor’s hips rose to meet him, and Peter slapped his ass to still the motion. Thrusting shallow as punishment, he had leaned forward to whisper in his ear. _Perhaps we can move this little party to the throne room, and I’ll bend you over your father’s throne, yeah?_

Thor had moaned then, angling his ass to correct Peter’s position as Peter sped up, thrusting into Thor with abandon, peppering in threats and promises when he was capable of speech. Thor had reached down to pump his own erection, only to be stopped by Peter.

Remembering their first time when Thor had denied Peter the same, Peter had panted: _Not yet… You don’t… you don’t cum until I… until I say you can._ His words were accented with the lewd slap of skin against skin. Thor’s hand had retreated, leaving his dick untouched.

Peter and Gamora had experimented with domination in the bedroom, switching roles as it suited their mood, but there’s a time and place for that sort of play, and right now, Peter wants to hear those high breathy sounds Gamora makes when he’s being very sweet and attentive.

He travels downward, planting open mouth kisses between her soft breast over the firm plane of her belly down where she smells most pungent between her thighs. He lovingly parts her legs, massaging her inner thighs as he laps and teases her sex with the confidence of experience. Tonight is about Gamora, about proving to her who is the better lover and hence the better man for her.

Biting her lip against a strangled moan lest the others hear through the echo through hollow metal walls, she tangles her fingers in his short curls, pushing his head closer as he pleasures her. Peter works his fingers into her, alternating strokes of his nimble digits and tongue, expertly building up her orgasm. She falls back, and Peter can tell she’s close when her thighs squeeze the sides of his head, and when she grabs a pillow to muffle her screams, her passage spasms around his intrusion before her body becomes limp.

Peter rises from his kneeled position. One hand still caressing Gamora’s sex, he takes his erection in the other, slicking it up against the wet glide of her slit, coating it in her natural lubrication.

Gamora sits up to pull him down, kissing him deeply before moving onto the hollow of his neck.

“Love you, Gamora,” he gasps as he enters her tenderly, reverently. He rocks into her as she rises to meet him, pushing against him just as passionately as he does her.

Peter can treat her right, he thinks – better than her other partners, past or potential... better than even the God of Thunder himself.

 _You’re mine,_ Peter had said as he drilled rhythmically into Thor with enthusiastic encouragement from his lover. He had reached around to grasp Thor’s erection, pumping him achingly slow. Thor moaned wordlessly as his arms collapsed boneless into the bed, his hips raised but rocked forward with Peter’s every thrust, every slap of his pelvis against Thor’s ass accentuated by the knock of the headboard against the wall. Thor's skin glistened in the torchlight; his blond hair wild and wispy, casting shadows across his face turned outwards. _You’re mine, and he can’t have you._

“You’re mine,” Peter echoes in the present. “He can’t have you. He can’t.” His tone is quiet, edging on desperate, as he suddenly pushes in a little too hard, catching her unaware.

Gamora winces, and Peter can feel her body tense around him. He immediately backs off.

“I’m sorry,” he says, remorseful and uncertain as his thrusts slow to a stop.

Gamora says nothing as she sits up, hooking her arms around Peter’s waist she fluidly flips him onto his back, holding his hands down by the wrist as she mounts his dick with little ceremony, setting a moderate pace with a rolling rise and fall of her hips. She dips down to drag her tongue against his nipple, causing him to gasp. He can feel her smile against his skin as she alternates between swirling the broad flat side against his tender skin and flicking the nipple with the tip of her tongue.

She abandons the grip on his wrists to allow her hands to travel around his neck and across his chest, allowing him to return the favor with gentle, heated caresses of her body, touching her how he knows she likes to be touched as well. He can hear her gasp loudly, her body clench around him in ripples as she cums, and he spills into her not too long after.

She dismounts, tucking into his side as their breathing returns to normal.

Peter rolls into her arms; clinging to her by the waist, he presses a kiss to her temple. “Please don’t leave me, Gamora,” he says softly in a rare moment of vulnerability, whispering his plea into her hair when he comes down.

She wraps strong arms around his shoulders, soothing him with gentle circles in his back.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the time we see Peter in GotG, he’s an experienced and confident lover, but how the hell did he get there considering his canon background? I contend that there’s no way Peter Quill, raised by a bunch of dudes who think of time as money and refuse to show sentiment, would know how to please a partner without some serious intervention. He knows the general mechanics from porn and paid sex (where the main goal is his own pleasure). He might even have some romantic ideals about love from his mom, but he has to absolutely suck at sex, especially early on. He had to have someone with the patience and emotional investment to show him how it’s done, which he wouldn’t get from a one-night stand or hired prostitute. In this fic, that person is Thor, who has had centuries of practice pleasing all different types of partners in a wide range of situations and positions. So, when Peter tries to imitate whatever shit he’s seen, Thor is all “Oh hell no. You are not going through life topping like that, like some kind of selfish asshole,” but you know, phrased way nicer. Also this last scene where I interweaved past and present smut… it was a bitch to write, which is why this chapter is late. I hope it came out okay.


	7. Stay (Reprise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, here’s the deal: I have about 9,300 words of the end already written, and there are so many more scenes to write that I had to split this chapter and the next one into two each. This chapter is a little shorter than prior ones, but that’s where it broke the best, narratively-speaking. I hope you enjoy!

**Eighteen Years Prior**

“We hold hands with a person on either side,” Thor cups his left hand over Peter’s right, standing at his side. “And then we go right, right, cross kick right, cross kick left, then repeat, moving about in a circle,” he instructs, pantomiming the moves as he speaks. Peter watches his feet, imitating Thor.

“So, that’s all there is to it?” He asks, falling into the rhythm of a rudimentary circle dance.

“Well, these are the basics. It’s enough for you to join in our festivities,” Thor explains. “Warriors have more acrobatic parts to play in ceremonial dances as tribute to the Allfather, but it will take you years to master those moves.”

“Years?” Peter repeats, still gazing downward. This dance seems simple enough for even a child to master. How advanced could it possibly get?

Thor smiles at the note of skepticism in his voice. “Yes… I could teach you, if you are so inclined. You could join us in our rituals in good time.”

“Yeah, sure. I’m an excellent dancer… a natural, really,” Peter replies. “I’m sure I can pick it up fast.” If Kevin Bacon can teach an entire high school how to dance in synchrony in minutes, surely Peter can learn anything Thor threw his way inside a week.

“They are rather rigorous, so I don’t expect you to master them quickly. It might take years – decades even – to be at a level for public performance, but I would not be opposed to offering you lessons, if you so desire,” Thor hints, pausing the dance.

Peter runs into Thor, stepping on his foot in the process when it takes him a moment to stop as well, temporarily struck dumb by Thor’s insinuation. He couldn’t possibly be suggesting what Peter thinks he’s suggesting.

“So, what do you think?” Thor laces his fingers between Peter’s.

_There’s no way._

“About?” he asks, trying to confirm whether he is reading the situation correctly.

“Staying in Asgard,” Thor clarifies, “With me.” At Peter’s continued blank expression, he further elaborates, “Forever. I promise to care for you. Anything you desire that is in my power to give will be yours, Michael Knight, Lord of Stars.”

_Yes._

“…Can I think about it?” Peter answers instead.

Thor looks disappointed – “Of course, take all the time you require” – but he respects Peter’s need for time to consider this potentially life-altering decision.

Using their joined hands as a pivot, Peter swings around to face Thor. “Say, would you like to learn a Midgardian dance?” he tries to lighten the mood, slipping his other hand behind Thor to rest along his lower back.

Thor smiles.

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Of all the ways Peter thought his thing with Thor would end, he had never considered it simply _wouldn’t,_ yet here he was, seriously entertaining Thor’s offer to stay.

Permanently.

He thinks of his mother. She had been around his age when she met his father, and though she hadn’t told him much about the man beyond general flattering descriptors (kind, gentle, righteous, ambitious), Peter had the impression that his father was older than her, _much_ older if the way Grandpa’s face soured at any mention of him was any indication. Peter wonders whether his mother would like Thor, or if she too would recoil at their rather significant age difference. He’ll never know, but he likes to think she would approve.

Deep down, Peter wonders if Frigga approves, but he’s too afraid to ask lest he receive an unfavorable answer. Sure, she liked him well enough as her son’s guest, but what if she knew it ran deeper than that?

“Excellent execution, Michael. You have come far in your lessons,” Frigga calls out, praising him after Peter successfully hides his whereabouts from her locating spell.

Peter swings open the wardrobe door, emerging from within. It reminds him of when his mother and he had played hide-and-seek in years past. “You really couldn’t find me?”

Even though he might soon abandon his plans to covertly access the Royal Vault, Peter still values his time spent with Thor’s mother. Plus, if he could disappear from Loki’s notice, it bode well for his continued survival in Asgardian court. Thor’s protection can only stretch so far where his maliciously-mischievous brother is concerned, and Peter is only mortal.

“Yes, your cloaking skills have vastly improved,” she confirms, taping her silver charm around his neck. “As long as you wear that talisman, even Loki will be hard-pressed to find you. I wish Thor had expressed as much interest in his lessons as you have. He has potential, but no patience to nurture his magical gifts.”

“Well, with the way he fights, I can see why. He’s pretty much invulnerable.”

“Yes… yes, he is,” she agrees. She hesitates a moment before segueing into a more delicate topic, “My son… he treats you well?”

“Very much so, Your Highness,” Peter replies, carefully neutral, Though she is bound to notice something is amiss when he fails to leave after twenty or thirty years, he wishes to remain ambiguous about the nature of their relationship to maintain her favor, if only for a little longer.

“I am glad to hear it. Thor has always been a sweet boy, so fiercely loyal to his… _friends_. He is strong, certainly, but he has a soft heart that can be so easily broken,” she says quietly, not quite looking at Peter. “You will take care to guard it for him, won’t you?”

“…Yes, Your Highness.”

“Thank you.”

It’s the closest he will ever come to getting a parent’s blessing. By contrast, Odin had yet to warm up to him at all.

“Ah, I see the boy is still with us,” Odin comments as Frigga turns to greet him and Peter subtly shifts away from her. He knew the Asgardian King didn’t like that a mortal, a common thief no less, struck up such a close friendship with his son, not to mention with the Queen herself.

“He is Thor’s guest, and Asgard is famous for her hospitality,” she says, her tone warm but with an underlying censure Peter is getting better at recognizing.

“If you will excuse me, Your Highness, I have taken up too much of your time already,” Peter says, seeking escape from the charged atmosphere of the room. “Your Majesty,” he bows to Odin before making a hasty exit.

When the door closes behind him, Odin speaks: “Why do you humor our son’s… little side project?”

“The boy is quite agreeable, given a chance,” Frigga explains, pausing for a moment before suggesting, “It would mean the world to Thor if you would at least try.”

Odin shakes his head. “You spoil our son, Frigga. The Midgardian is a frivolous distraction at best.”

“Thor delights in young Michael’s presence, and even if his interest outlives the boy, what of it?” she presses, reasoning: “He will mourn him for a decade at most, and then return to his duties as Prince of Asgard shortly after with no long-term repercussions. However, if you actively seek to separate them, our son may grow to resent you, and that may last centuries, long after the Midgardian’s bones have turned to dust. I see no harm in allowing their companionship to run its natural course.”

“There is nothing natural about his attachment to such a lowly being, no matter how ephemeral it may prove.”

“Let him be, Odin.” Frigga is resolute, thinning her lips at her husband and king.

Odin is unmoved. “Michael Knight is a dangerous liability.”

So she changes tactics, cupping his cheek to draw his attention, to help him see the wisdom in letting their son have his few benign joys. “Be patient, my love; it is but a century. Michael is young, but he will not last.”

“Didn’t I tell Thor absolutely no pets?” Turning away, Odin massages his temple to stave off his frustration with his favored son and heir. Loki would have never been so imprudent.

“The boy is no pet, but you only ever explicitly forbade Thor from keeping snakes.”

“That is because half the time, Thor’s pet snake turned out to be Loki playing one of his pranks, and the surgeon spent too much time stitching up the foolish boy when his affinity for the animals outweighed his good sense.”

Frigga laughs softly at that. “I am certain Michael Knight is not Loki in disguise. Our youngest is talented, yes, but he has yet to demonstrate the power to be in two places simultaneously while maintaining a corporeal form in both.”

“But that mortal child may yet reveal himself to be a viper. It would certainly explain Thor’s puzzling fondness for him,” he grouses.

“He is as you say: mortal and thereby harmless.”

Odin nods. Frigga’s counsel had always been wise, her judgment perceptive.

“The boy can stay,” he agrees. “For now.”

 

* * *

 

“Your mom knows,” Peter tells Thor, point-blank. “About us,” he clarifies when the other man appears much too blasé upon hearing the news.

Thor shrugs. “Is that so? Well, we are not exactly hiding anything; it was bound to come out eventually.”

“And your father?”

Peter doesn’t miss the way Thor’s back straightens as the muscles in his neck bunch. “We have done nothing of which to be ashamed, nothing that need be hidden from the light of day,” he insists, his tone cool, almost too casual.

“Uh huh,” Peter is not convinced. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think he’s figured it out yet.”

“It’s not anything to do with you, Michael. It’s… Father can be… difficult to please,” he doesn’t quite look at Peter. “He has certain expectations of me as his heir, and…”

“And shacking up with a penniless orphan is not his idea of a smart move?” Peter finishes. “I’ve seen that movie, and not to pop your bubble, but I’m not secretly a prince or diamond heiress or something equally impressive that will make your dad like me.”

“I do not need Father’s approval in every aspect of my life,” Thor assures him.

Peter turns away, steepling fingers to his forehead. “I know, it’s just…”

_Families are important. To the people that have them._

“Are there any individuals to whom you are beholden?” Thor asks tentatively. Peter’s past is not a subject he broached lightly.

“No,” Peter answers much too quickly, but he recalls blue hands adjusting his course as he slingshot through his first evasive maneuver. _Yer goin’a be the death of me,_ Yondu had grumbled later, but the fingers ruffling through his hair had been fond.

And later still, when Peter had contracted the Yakolt pox, it had been Yondu who sat with him, quietly cleaning and binding his burst sores with minimal complaint. _If you die on me now, boy, you ain’t never learnin’ to whistle like yer ole man. The ladies love it when ya whistle at ‘em._ Peter had chalked up that particular exchange to delirium caused by his dangerously-high fever or translation error. Sometimes, his translator played tricks on him like that, broadcasting phrases Yondu couldn’t possibly have said.

Plus, the one time he tried to follow fever-dream Yondu’s advice, the woman had slapped him.

At the very least, he owes Yondu a forewarning that he may not be returning to the Ravagers, for old time’s sake.

When Peter retires to his room, declining Thor’s increasingly-frequent invitations to spend the night, he dons his old Ravager clothing, rips open his mattress for the holo-pad he had hidden four months prior, and positions himself in front of a neutral wall just to the left of his dresser.

He turns on the communicator.

He is immediately inundated with a series of increasingly irate messages from his employer, demanding he finish the job. Peter ignores these, swiping through them all to reach the pre-programmed contacts.

He takes a deep breath, and selects the Eclector’s back channel to Yondu’s quarters.

Yondu, bleary-eyed and morose, answers. He perks up upon recognizing his late-night caller, his expression shifting quickly from disbelief to quiet rage. “Quill, is that you?” He is surprisingly successful in his efforts to remain calm. “Stars, I thought chu was dead. It’s been months, an’ no messages, no calls, no indication you was livin’? I mean, what in the ever-lovin’ fu–” Yondu pauses his diatribe, visibly collecting himself before trying again. “Where are ya? We’ll pick you up,” he says calmly, doing a rather good job of sublimating his notorious temper.

Peter looks away, crooking an arm to rub the nape of his neck. “I’d rather not say.”

“Yer gittin’ yer ass back here, or do I have to track you down an’ drag ya back?” Yondu barks out, his limited patience snapped by Peter’s months-long absence.

“I’m still deciding what I want to do.”

“Decidin’?” Yondu blusters. “What’s there to decide, boy? Send me yer coordinates, an’ I’ll pick you up right quick.”

Peter purses his lips. “This might be a foreign concept to you, but I have options.” He readjusts the screen, accidentally showing Yondu a flash of a golden corner of the wardrobe next to him.

Yondu picks up on the detail immediately. “Is that… are you in Asgard?” he rages, blood-shot eyes boring into Peter.

_Oops._

“I’m not saying.”

His face twists into a sneer, accentuating the wrinkles in the furrow of his brow. “You little bastard! I told chu not to take that job, an’ you go off an’ defy me. Surprised you didn’t end up dead!”

Peter’s temper rises to match Yondu’s. “Well, believe it or not, I can do a job, a real one, not as a lookout or basic recon on someone’s old aunt Gladiolus or some other crappy grunt work,” he argues back.

Yondu looks away then takes a calming breath. “Yeah Quill, you sure showed me.” He’s silent for a moment as he massages his scalp near the crystalline implant before continuing in a more reasonable tone: “Now here’s what yer goin’a do. Yer gettin’ yer ass back to the Milano as soon as possible and then yer gonna activate the emergency distress beacon, which will allow me to zero in on yer location. Then, I’m pickin’ you up. You do all that, an’ I promise: only one month of scrub duty, no whippin’s fer insubordination an’ stealin’ my holo-pad – don’t think I don’t know that was you – an’ we’ll call it square.”

Still riled up from Yondu’s earlier scolding, Peter declares, “Did you not hear me or are you going deaf, old man? I said I’m not sure I’m leaving. At all.”

In fact, based on this conversation alone, he’s leaning towards staying.

Yondu narrows his eyes at his wayward boy. “Don’t be ridiculous. Git back to the Milano an’ activate the distress beacon. Right now. I mean it,” he orders.

Peter gives his mentor a flat stare. It’s like Yondu hadn’t heard him at all, but now, Peter holds all the cards. He doesn’t have to listen to the old bastard.

Yondu appears to come to the same realization as well because he suddenly tries a different track to reach him.

He breathes out, slow and audible. “Look, son. Everyone loves a puppy until it turns into an old dog that pisses on the carpet,” he says quietly, eyes closed, arms crossed and fingers tapping his temple.

“Is that what I am to you? A stars-damned puppy?” Peter asks, still incensed.

Yondu can’t help the snippy retort that follows. “Fuck no, boy. A puppy would follow orders better’an you.”

“I’m signing off,” he says, moving to close out the comm window. He doesn’t have to stand here and be insulted like this. Not anymore.

Yondu holds out an open palm. “Wait! Jus’… hold on there a stars-damned minute. I need you to listen, Quill, an’ you listen good,” he sucks in a breath, choosing his next words carefully. “Yer young now, an’ you may think you fit in with those Asgardians, but I know people like ‘em. Rich, cultured assholes like that always like ‘em young and pretty, but I’ve watched you, son, an’ you age like a Terran. Soon enough yer goin’a lose yer shine, an’ then what? The Ravagers will always accept you. No matter what chu look like or how old ya git, you’ll always have a spot an’ a purpose, but Asgardians? I don’t know, son. You really think they’ll still want chu when you wrinkle? They gonna have yer back?”

“Have my back?” Peter reiterates. “You threaten to eat me all the time!”

That does it.

“You ungrateful li’l fucker… Ten years past, my boys wanted to eat you, but I stopped them. I saved yer life! Yer alive ‘cause of me!”

Peter’s face twists into an open expression of betrayal and hurt. It is Yondu’s ultimate ploy for sympathy and obedience, pointing out that Peter should be _grateful_ for every breath he drew simply because Yondu himself hadn’t snuffed it out all those years ago. No matter how long it had been, how many moments, how many memories, had transpired between his abduction and the present day… It always came back to this argument, didn’t it?

Peter owes Yondu his obedience – his very life – and he is never allowed to want anything for himself. Their relationship will never be what he really needs.

Peter abruptly ends the call. When Yondu attempts to call back, he shuts down the device, angrily tossing it onto the bed. He then slides down the wall to sit on the floor, shoulders slumped forward, head hanging over. He scratches an ear.

_How dare he?_

But really what did Peter expect? The old dog is never going to change, and it was really Peter’s fault that he couldn’t accept their relationship at face value, always hoping for more than what Yondu was even capable of providing.

Perhaps it is time he moved on.

 

* * *

 

Thor awakens to the sound of furious knocking on his bedroom door. When he drags himself up to answer it, he finds Peter on the other side.

“Yes,” Peter tells him.

“Yes?” he repeats, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Had they parted ways mid-conversation last he saw him only an hour before.

“I want to stay,” he clarifies, “if the offer still stands.”

Thor graces him with a sleepy smile, wrapping his arms around Peter’s back, pulling him into a grateful embrace. “Of course, Lord of Stars.”

Peter returns the hug, clinging to him like Thor is his anchor, his only lifeline in a storm-

He’ll never let him go.


	8. The Midgard Serpent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Complications arise, and Peter rethinks his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song “I’m Not in Love” by 10cc from the Awesome Mix Vol 1 is about a man in denial over how much he loves a woman, and he uses every excuse under the sun to not admit it.

**Eighteen Years Prior**

Left over center. Right over center. Slip a section into the right bundle, then another from the other side into the left. Tighten. Repeat.

“And this hair style is popular amongst your people?” Thor asks as Peter sits behind him, working his long blonde hair into a french braid while Thor reclines in the bath. He had dismissed his usual attendants at Peter’s request, when the younger man had rolled up his sleeves, offering to brush out his hair and style it in accordance with Midgardian traditions.

“Yep,” Peter confirms, “Everything from France is popular. French fries, french toast, french braids…” he ticks off each item with a bump of his occupied fingers, head tilted to one side in thought, “French’s mustard. All super fancy and very popular…” _Among women._

Thor hums, loving the gentle massage of Peter’s fingers tangled in his hair. “Then why do you not grow out your hair? I’m sure you would look quite handsome,” he remarks, gazing at Peter’s reflection in the looking glass.

“You kidding? I could never pull it off like you can. My hair gets super curly and frizzy when long.” Plus, the one time he tried, he had contracted space lice and had to shave his entire head. In retrospect, Peter wonders whether Yondu faked his nits. The captain hadn’t been a fan of Peter’s even-more-frequent showers when trying to maintain his long unruly hair…

On second thought, perhaps he _should_ grow it out again, if only to blend in with the local color. It had nothing to do with his grudge against the old curmudgeon. Nothing at all.

Thor flinches when Peter pulls his hair a bit too tight.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, easing his grip on the golden locks as he passes the nape of Thor’s neck and switches to a standard braid to finish up.

The soft opening of the next song drifts up from the headphones circling his neck.

_I’m not in love. So don’t forget it. It’s just a silly phase I’m going through…_

He grabs a bit of ribbon from the basin-side table to tie off the braid then slips his arms over Thor’s shoulders traveling down his chest into the water to trace the naked muscles of Thor’s abdomen as he nuzzles into the side of his face.

“What do you think?” Peter murmurs, turning to look at them both in the mirror.

Thor lifts a hand to firmly palm Peter’s forearm.

“Perfection,” he replies, but he’s not looking at his hair, staring instead into Peter’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

As Thor’s brother and closest confidante, Loki is the first to hear of Peter’s change in status from indefinite guest to permanent resident. He is not pleased.

“You are unbelievable!” Loki tells him, ignoring Peter’s presence at Thor’s side.

“I am not asking for your permission or blessing,” Thor states calmly, throwing an arm across Peter’s shoulders and pulling him in close. “I am simply informing you of _our_ decision.”

Loki refuses to acknowledge his brother’s whore. “He is a shameless opportunist. At best he is using you for a place to stay. At worst… he is biding his time while his fellow delinquents regroup to execute another attempt on your life. You cannot possibly trust him.”

“I am not trying to kill Thor,” Peter interjects. He’s getting real tired of these mostly-baseless accusations. He was only planning to threaten him the one time.

“Quiet. Your betters are speaking.”

“Brother, you will not speak to him as if he were a worthless cur beneath your notice.”

“And you,” he addresses Thor. “How can you be so blind? The evidence of his deceit is locked away in Father’s personal armory, or have you forgotten your would-be assassin’s dagger?”

“For the last time, Michael Knight was not involved in the attempt against my life.” His exasperated tone clearly indicates this is not the first or even the tenth time they had retread this argument. “I have entertained you long enough on this and will hear no more on the subject.”

Loki crosses his arms. “When he stabs you in your sleep, you will only have yourself to blame.”

 

* * *

 

Thor’s friends are not quite as overt in their disapproval, but they make their dissatisfaction clear.

“Come take a walk with me, Lord of Stars,” Lady Sif requests the following morning after breakfast.

It is rare that she would choose to spend any amount of time with Peter, much less alone. He is immediately suspicious. “You’re not planning to murder me and throw my body over the Rainbow Bridge, right?”

“Have you done anything to warrant such treatment?”

That isn’t a denial.

When Peter doesn’t budge, she reassures him, “I only wish to speak to you regarding a private matter concerning our mutual friend, if you would be so kind as to allow it.” She tips her head to indicate a watchful Thor sitting towards the head of the long table. “He will see us leave together. I dare not return without you.”

She has a point. Peter stands to follow her out of the Great Hall towards the gardens.

They walk in silence for a beat, passing the hedges and fountains before she speaks: “Thor says you will be staying in Asgard for longer than expected.”

“He told you guys as well,” he states, wondering how long it will be before he informs the Allfather.

Lady Sif shakes her head. “He told his brother. As you well know, Loki is nearly in fits over the news.”

“Yeah, I knew he wouldn’t be exactly thrilled, but I didn’t think he would get that worked up over it.”

“While prone to a dramatic turn-of-phrase here and again, Loki is fairly even-keeled generally-speaking, though I wouldn’t be surprised if you became the target of a rash of more-than-harmless pranks in the near future,” she allows, assuring Peter: “He will come to accept the situation in time, as will we all.”

It isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.

“Awesome, just… great.”

As if Peter didn’t have other complications with which to contend. Now, it appears Lady Sif and the Warriors Three weren’t on board with their evolving relationship as well.

She looks straight ahead, leading them down a less well-trodden path. “Did you know, Lord of Stars, that upon the 100-year celebration of the birth of an Asgardian of importance, they receive a reading of their fortune?”

Peter shrugs, his attention elsewhere as he concentrates on noting the direction taken at each fork in the road, just in case he needed to back-track in a hurry without her guidance. “Are you going to tell my fortune or something?”

She laughs a bit at that. It’s a high breathy sound with no real mirth. “No, I do not have that gift, but on Thor’s 100-year celebration, he received a prophecy of his eventual death. He will kill a world destroyer, his arch-nemesis, Jormungandr, but in his victory, succumb to its venom.”

“Has anyone found this Jormun-gander guy? Seems like a giant liability to have Thor’s future murderer running around.” Peter doesn’t put much stock in fate or fortunes of the non-monetary type, but if Asgardians are superstitious enough to believe in such things, it stood to reason they would try to thwart unfavorable circumstance.

“You are correct. Thor is not one to sit back and wait for his future to come to him. He located Jormungandr and eliminated it, locking its skull away in the Royal Vault, never to be seen again.” Lady Sif’s tone is carefully non-accusatory.

“Skull in the Royal Vault?” Peter repeats. He doesn’t like where this is going.

“The Royal Vault is no mere storage facility for valuables and priceless baubles. Rather, it houses Asgard’s most dangerous artifacts, and Jormungandr’s teeth remain poisonous to Thor. It is one of the few things an underhanded, but physically-weaker, enemy could use to kill him. The dagger Thor’s would-be assassin used the night you escaped the dungeons was fashioned from one of the smaller teeth stolen from the vault, most likely on the day you distracted the Destroyer,” she insinuates, her voice growing quiet but stern. “Jormungandr has another name as well. Its original name. The one given in the prophecy: The Midgard Serpent.”

Peter stops in his tracks. Lady Sif forges ahead a couple steps, then turns to face him.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks her. “Shouldn’t you be telling Thor about your hunch, if you’re so sure?”

“You think I didn’t try? Thor claims coincidence. If you had been part of the plot against his life, conventional wisdom dictates you wouldn’t have been the one to stop it, nor would you have come to his personal chambers to threaten him with a standard kitchen knife. Only a fool would attack the God of Thunder with such a paltry weapon,” Lady Sif explains, carefully examining Peter’s poker face for a trace of the truth.

Wisely, Peter chooses not to rise to the bait.

She continues, “Thor is too enamored with you to see reason, but if any harm comes to him, then I will not stop until you and all you love are dead.”

“Look lady, I’m not going to hurt him. I don’t think I could, even if I tried,” he says, crossing his arms.

“Tell me, Lord of Stars: What were you really after that day in the vault?”

Peter ponders his answer, settling on a version of the truth. “A way out of a tough situation,” he replies enigmatically.

Lady Sif seems to accept his response. “And it seems you may very well have attained your goal. Thor is an honorable man. He won’t cast you out, even long after he has grown weary of your presence. You will be well looked after for the rest of your natural life.”

Peter bristles at the notion. “I am not some… trophy wife or whatever the Asgardian equivalent is.”

“Not a wife so much as a concubine or a courtesan if you seek the correct terminology. You do not possess the strength nor longevity to be a true partner to a King of Asgard.”

“And you do?” he counters, driving at what he thinks is the heart of this confrontation.

Lady Sif simply shakes her head. “Do not misunderstand my intentions, Michael Knight. I did not come here today to wound you unnecessarily nor to proclaim myself the better match – I am not that petty nor so vindictive to tear down one so young as you – but you must realize: Thor’s reign will last millennia, while you… simply will not. So enjoy your time with him, make him happy while you can, but know that if any former compatriots attempt another assassination with even a whiff, a shadow, of your assistance, I will not hesitate to strike you down, even if it costs me Thor’s friendship,” she pledges. “I would rather he hate me and live than perish with my support.”

“Noted… Good to know he has such good friends watching his back.”

“Someone has to. Thor is strong, that is true, but his near invulnerability has made him foolhardy, careless.” It’s the closest she has ever come to calling the prince an idiot out loud.

Peter cracks a smile at that. “He’s doing okay. If I was near immortal like you guys, I would end up doing some stupid-dangerous shi- I mean stuff.”

Her brow crinkles at his near-crassness. “…I do not understand what he sees in you.”

“My sparkling sense of humor?” he tries again, bestowing upon her one of his best smiles.

“Your company would have to be tolerable, if not enjoyable, for that to be the case,” she replies flatly, clearly unamused.

“Stars, you’re a tough crowd,” Peter looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. “…but if I’m being completely honest with you, Sif – can I call you Sif? – I don’t get it either.”

 

* * *

 

Now aware of his employer’s ultimate goal thanks to his enlightening conversation with Lady Sif, Peter retrieves his pilfered holopad. He’s checking additional angry messages from the treacherous wizard, crafting a more professional response beyond ‘Fuck you and the ship you flew in on’ when a call comes through. The icon indicates it’s Kraglin. Peter narrows his eyes. It seems the blue bastard got someone else to do his dirty work, the only person to whom Peter may feel inclined to respond.

_Well played, Yondu, well played._

His finger hovers over the man’s face for a moment before ultimately accepting the call.

Kraglin looks worn down, as if he’d rather be doing anything else right now. “Hey Pete,” he begins.

“If Yondu put you up to this, tell him I’m not responding to his demands,” Peter says, immediately defensive.

Kraglin’s face morphs into one of poorly-repressed anger. “Cap’n didn’t put me up to shit,” he barks out. “I’m callin’ to tell you to stay the fuck away. Yer done with us? That’s fine, just peachy, but don’t chu come back when yer new friends kick you to the curb.”

“Oh, it’s nice to hear from you, too, Kraglin. I bet you’re real happy now that you have Yondu all to yourself, just like you always wanted. How am I doing?” he lightly beats his chest, sarcastically feigning a more-friendly conversation with his one-time brother. “Glad you asked. Because everything is fucking perfect with me.”

Kraglin matches his tone to Peter’s. “Fuckin’ fantastic.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Peter shouts, his anger belying his words.

Kraglin is the first to break eye contact, looking away from the screen to pinch the bridge of his nose. “So, that’s it, huh? All them years we was fightin’ an’ stealin’ an’ scroungin’ together… didn’t mean nothin’ to you?” He looks up. “I mean… Stars, Pete. Cap’n won’t tell you, but leavin’ like you did at a time when he’s already feelin’ low over the quarterlies, it hurt him. Cut him real deep.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Right, like I could hurt Yondu. In his nonexistent feelings. Don’t let him catch you talking about him like that. You may end up on the wrong side of an airlock.”

“You really have no clue what yer talkin’ about,” Kraglin grumbles before straightening up. “Well, I said my piece, so… guess this is goodbye.” He leans forward to turn off the vid stream.

“Kraglin, wait…” Peter knows he’s going to regret this, but he has to know. “Are things really that bad on the Eclector?”

Kraglin waffles, “You lookin’ fer the truth or…?”

“Yeah, just tell it to me straight. You guys aren’t drawing straws to see who ends up in the stewpot, right?” Peter tries to joke, hoping to get a rise out of the other man.

Instead, Kraglin just sighs. “No, we ain’t there yet, but… well, it’s not really your problem anymore, so don’t worry about it,” he says despondently, looking older than Peter has ever seen him. Though… now that he thought about it, Yondu himself had looked a bit gaunt and bedraggled during their last call, as if he had aged a decade in the last four months.

“We’ll be fine. Cap’n will git it together an’ pull through. He always does,” he reassures him.

It’s Kraglin’s attempt to put his mind at ease that actually worries Peter, but before he can say anything to that effect, the man continues, “’Bye, Petey. You take care of yerself, ya hear, an’… I hope you have a nice life.” He reaches out, cutting the feed.

Peter sits for a spell afterward, staring at the blank screen, nursing his doubts.

 

* * *

 

He is still in his room an hour later, long after he would have normally left, when the cleaning service passes through. It had been months, but he recognizes the scullery boy from the night he escaped the dungeons.

“Hey, it’s you. I know you… Halvor, right?”

“Fiske,” he corrects him. “I could come back later, if you please, sir.”

“Michael Knight,” Peter supplies. “Or you can call me Star-Lord. ‘Sir’ makes me feel old.” Besides, based on what he knew of the Asgardian aging process, the boy is likely several orders of magnitude older than even his grandfather.

Fiske goes to work straightening out the blankets and sheets on his bed. They are clearly unslept in, being only slightly wrinkled where Peter had sat on the end. “You’ve done well for yourself, Lord of Stars. I knew Prince Thor would like you from the moment I got a good look at you that night.”

“My good looks aside, he likes me for other reasons, too,” Peter says, but even to his own sensibilities, asserting his intrinsic value to a palace servant he barely knows comes across as overcompensation.

Fiske raises a brow at that. “Whatever your lord-ship says.” He puffs up the pillows, placing them at the head and expertly re-piling on the decorative cushions. At Peter’s darkening gaze, the boy puts up his palms in an ameliorating manner. “I am not judging you. Quite the opposite, in fact. A man has to do what a man has to do, and the prince is altogether not displeasing to the eye. You could do much worse.”

“Me and Thor have a real connection,” he insists, but the implication does not sit well with him.

 

* * *

 

_Thor is an honorable man. He won’t cast you out, even long after he has grown weary of your presence,_ Lady Sif had said.

_Soon enough yer goin’a lose yer shine, an’ then what? The Ravagers will always accept you,_ Yondu had argued, looking wild-eyed and desperate for Peter to listen to him, _but Asgardians? I don’t know, son. You really think they’ll still want chu when you wrinkle?_

And then there was Kraglin, angry and hurt and so very thin, saying his final goodbyes as the Eclector sank into famine and increasingly-probable mutiny.

_I was sure they’d catch me._ _Why’d you stick your neck out for me back there,_ Peter had asked when he was still small and new, suspicious of the other boy’s motives. _We’s Ravagers, Pete. We look after each other,_ Kraglin had replied, tossing him the smaller half of a pilfered sweet bun while biting into his share, chewing with his mouth wide open, much to Peter’s endless disgust. _Plus, Cap’n would’a had my hide if I let ya stew in prison fer ten standards._

Often, when Yondu couldn’t offer the comfort Peter craved, it had been Kraglin who begrudgingly caved to gentler impulses, vacillating between unrepentant asshole and gruff older brother. Whether this inconsistent kindness stemmed from Captain’s orders or genuine affection, Peter can never be certain, but he liked to think their brotherhood meant something to the older man. Belatedly, he wonders if Kraglin has the same reservations about Peter himself and whether Peter’s recent decision to stay had cemented a less-charitable interpretation of their relationship. He’ll never know.

But at the end of the day, Yondu and Kraglin are Ravagers, same as Peter, for better or worse. They are… maybe not exactly family, but being a Ravager meant something. They look out for each other. They don’t let each other starve–

Peter knows what he has to do.

 

* * *

 

Thor is polishing Mjolnir when Peter enters his chambers later that night. Recognizing his lover’s foot-fall, he doesn’t even turn around when Peter approaches him from behind and snakes his hands around and down the front to fondle his groin.

He sets aside his hammer. “Eager tonight, are we?” Thor says, finally turning to face him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Peter can’t get enough of Thor’s smiles, from his wide dopey grins to the small upturn of his mouth when he thinks he’s getting away with something. They always reach his eyes, sparkling with amusement and a knowing glance.

Stars, he’ll miss this, miss him.

Ten minutes later, Thor has him spread out on the bed, his shirt discarded along with his own, Peter’s skin hot where it touches Thor’s. This is the last time. Thor doesn’t know it yet, but Peter is all too aware.

Peter must know.

He breaks their kiss. “Why do you care so much about me?” he asks, his voice small, vulnerable.

“How could I not?” Thor rumbles in his ear, pressing his lips tenderly to his temple before trying to recapture Peter’s kiss.

Thor catches him on the jaw when Peter tilts his head to the side. “Because I’m pretty?” he asks playfully, but there’s a touch of uncertainty there that Thor doesn’t quite catch in his lust.

“There’s that,” he admits, “but pretty isn’t everything.”

Peter kisses him, attempting to keep up his confident façade, “Then why?” he whispers when he pulls away yet again.

That catches Thor’s attention. There’s a beat of silence, then: “Because Michael Knight is funny,” he replies, purposely pressing a ticklish kiss to the hollow of his neck, “and silly. Michael Knight is kind when he wants to be” –another kiss to his chest this time– “which is more often than he thinks.”

Thor sits back on his haunches to plant yet another kiss further down on his stomach– “Michael Knight is smart” –he loosens Peter’s belt– “much smarter than he lets on.” –he pushes down his pants– “I dream of him, both waking and in slumber.” –he pulls out Peter’s erection, giving it a slow tug– “And I suspect he needs me just as much as I need him.”

“What is there not to like?” Thor concludes, wrapping his lips around Peter’s dick, worshipping the length of him with broad strokes of his wet tongue.

Peter knows what Thor is trying to do. He wants to reassure him of his devotion by pleasuring Peter first, by making this night about him, but Peter doesn’t want that… Not tonight, not when it’s the very last time.

He sits up and lightly pushes Thor’s shoulder back. Thor relents easily, confused by his lover’s actions, until Peter guides him onto his back. Kissing him deeply, he reaches over for the lube to slick Thor’s dick and mounts him, his own passage already thoroughly lubed from earlier preparations before he even entered Thor’s chambers. He rolls his hips slowly, easing into a pace he knows Thor prefers.

Peter’s hands are on his chest, circling around his back, massaging the muscles there while he ravishes Thor’s mouth. He rides him, tenderly at first, gently speeding up to a fever pitch as Thor’s breathing quickens and he encourages Peter’s strides with hands on his hips, moving him in synchrony with his thrusts until he cries out into his shoulder. Peter holds on, riding out his orgasm until both are spent and panting.

“I love you,” Peter says suddenly, soft and desperate. To his surprise, he means it.

Thor holds him in a tight embrace. “I love you, too.”

It’s the first – and last – time they will say it to each other.

Peter burrows down into his lover’s arms, memorizing his musky scent, the feel of his skin soft over firm muscles. He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t.

He fails to realize he’s trembling until Thor pats his back, shushing him through the tremors he assumes are born of overstimulation. And afterward, Peter lies there in his arms, pretending to sleep as Thor drifts into a heavy slumber. He disengages his limbs from his paramour, emerging from the warm cocoon of blankets to the crisp air harsh against his cooling body. He quietly dresses then tiptoes towards the door, turning back to look at the handsome slack face of Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, for what he believes is the very last time.

He allows himself a generous ten seconds to feel a pang of regret, a modicum of poignant sadness, before burying it deep. He has a job to complete.

As Loki had unwittingly revealed, his prize lies in Odin’s personal armory, protected, but not by the Destroyer.

Peter can do this.

 

* * *

 

Thor awakens to a cry of alarm and an empty bed. Quickly pulling on his clothes and calling forth his trusted hammer, he exits his quarters, making his way towards the source of the commotion: the Allfather’s personal armory.

“Find him!” Odin fumes, addressing Heimdall. “Find him and bring him back to face the penalties for his grave crimes.”

“What has happened?” Thor asks, having just arrived to the scene.

Odin rounds on him. “What has happened is that your pet thief has made off with the Crown Jewels, you foolish boy! I knew the Midgardian couldn’t be trusted,” he scolds his eldest. Turning back to Heimdall, he issues his command once again, his tone steely, resolute: “Now find him!”

Thor stands in disbelief. “How do you know it was him?”

“It appears young Michael left a note,” Loki points at a bit of parchment, pinned at eye-level to a column using the assassin’s dagger crafted from Jormungandr’s tooth. Scrawled in childish script are two words: ‘I’m sorry.’

“I cannot locate him, Your Majesty,” Heimdall reports solemnly. “It seems he is somehow shrouded from my omniscience.”

Frigga gasps, and Thor remembers all those lessons his mother had imparted over the months. His grip tightens on Mjolnir. Not only had Michael Knight used him to gain access to the palace, but he had taken advantage of his mother’s kindness as well to escape undetected. The man’s actions are callous and unforgivably cruel. Thor can hardly believe it. The thought leaves him feeling stupid for having trusted him and more than a little dirty and used. How could he have not seen through his duplicitous nature after four months of close, intimate contact? How could he have been so blind? Had it all been a lie?

…Had Michael Knight never loved him at all?

His attention is drawn to Loki who clears his throat before launching into his ill-timed gloat: “I hate to say I told you so, but–”

“Silence, brother. I do not want to hear your reproach,” Thor cuts him off.

Loki examines the crestfallen curve of Thor’s posture and the inconsolable expression gracing his face and thinks better of his planned admonition. “It’s best you forget him. Midgardians are flippant, faithless creatures unworthy of your notice and attention,” he advises instead, but there’s a touch of sympathy, of apology, in his voice.

Thor is too wrapped up in his heartbreak to notice.

“Leave me. I do not wish to hear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jormungandr (the Midgard Serpent) is a sea serpent and the arch-nemesis of Thor in Norse mythology as well as in the Marvel Comics. Thor is prophesized to kill Jormungandr at the expense of his own life, walking nine steps before succumbing to the serpent’s venom. In the comics, Thor manages to kill it without dying (on a technicality), but the Midgard Serpent’s teeth are said to be poisonous to Thor.
> 
> As for Peter's betrayal, I like to think that the main thing that would tempt a young Peter into staying with a mark wouldn’t be sex (at least not primarily) but the promise of family. Peter is an orphan raised by a bunch of pirates who have trouble expressing themselves emotionally, and he would be so familial-love-starved that Thor’s life would look real sweet, even if many members of Thor’s family dislike him. He’s a Ravager; it’s not like he’s not used to that already. However, it’s also the thing that would bring him back to the Ravagers. Even though Yondu and the rest are undeniably abusive, it would be very hard for Peter to turn his back on them, especially when he’s so young. For all the bad times he’s sustained, there was a lot of good, and it’s often hard for people to completely cut off their family.


	9. (Never) Getting Over You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter meets up with his employer to fence his stolen wares. Meanwhile, he deals with the emotional fall-out of his decision.

**Eighteen Years Prior**

Peter had already waited a half-hour past the agreed-upon time at the designated location in the forests of Asgard when he becomes nervous. What if his employer had abandoned him? How would he escape Asgard without his aid?

For now, Peter is too proud to call Yondu for an extraction, at least not without the credits he had envisioned presenting to his ornery captain as proof of his worth, but if the wizard takes any longer, he may not have much of a choice.

Suddenly, he feels the now-familiar disorientation of teleportation as light engulfs him and the ground disappears from his feet only to reappear in a familiar room. He stumbles to the floor, still unable to keep his balance in the aftermath, but at least he’s back to where he first met his employer four months prior.

“What took you so long? I thought you had stood me up.” Peter shakes himself out, trying to regain his equilibrium as he rises to his feet. He will never get used to teleportation. “You sure know how to make a guy nervous.”

“I had other obligations,” the silky voice responds from a shadowed corner where his employer, shrouded in darkened robes, stands. Even hidden from view, Peter can tell the man is slim, his posture perfectly straight, as if he had a proverbial stick up his ass.

Peter looks away, a hand ruffling through his hair. “How is he?”

“How is who?”

He rolls his eyes before settling his gaze on the not-so-mysterious figure. “Come on, Loki, I know it’s you. I’m not that stupid.”

The man steps into the light, removing his hood to reveal an older stranger with a fine aquiline nose and large deep-set eyes. He may have even been handsome… once, before he balded and his skin became pocked and liver-spotted with age and rather significant sun damage.

Peter looks surprised. “Oh, I thought you were…Nevermind.” He roots through his interior pockets for his score to present to the man. “Now, where did I put… You know, I’d lose my head if it weren’t screwed on. _Michael,_ I always tell myself, _you’ve got to be more organized with these things_.”

The wizard looks perplexed. “Michael? You told me your name was Peter.”

“Right… Peter,” he agrees, his search for the jewels in his jacket slowing. Truth told, he is surprised the man remembered his real name from their first meeting. Peter had been a pawn, a patsy in the wizard’s bid to collect a Serpent’s Tooth, and if he had been Loki, he would have forgotten Peter’s name immediately when deemed as someone beneath his notice, marked for death as he was. He feels mildly disappointed his test failed, proving his assertion incorrect.

“If you are done now, I would like to get on with it,” the wizard remarks blandly, commenting on Peter’s slow speed in producing his prize. “It took you long enough to complete your mission as it is.”

“I just ran into some complications, not that it should matter to you. I’m here now.” He pulls out a small satchel wrapped in cloth.

“You have the tooth?” The man reaches out to collect and examine the goods.

Peter withdraws the package out of reach, unwrapping it carefully. “Not exactly. I couldn’t get passed the Destroyer – thanks for the heads-up on that one, by the way – so I stole some of Odin’s jewelry instead.” He shakes a few items out of the pouch onto his open palm.

The wizard drops his outstretched hand. “The contract was for the tooth. What use do I have for glittery stones?”

“Look, this is what I have in stock,” Peter says, funneling the lot back into the pouch and tying it closed. “You can buy them, or I’ll just take them elsewhere. I’m sure I can find another buyer interested in these ‘glittery stones.’” He turns to leave. If he remembers correctly, he had parked the Milano not too far from this location.

“Wait…” his employer says, “We are not done here. I did not say I was completely uninterested in your wares, but I would like to know... Why?”

Peter pauses. “Why what?”

“You spent a long time living amongst the Asgardians. My sources say you even became cozy with the God of Thunder himself. Why would you choose to betray them now, after so much time, and not even for the contracted item?” The wizard regards him with a piercing, suspicious glare. “To put it plainly, this isn’t a set-up, is it?”

“You think I’d…” Peter sighs. Normally, he’d be insulted – Yondu didn’t raise no snitch – but these weren’t normal circumstances. He had an opportunity to steal the dagger and complete the mission as originally contracted, but… he didn’t. He might as well divulge some version of the truth. “You have a brother?”

The other man seems taken aback. “Why does that matter?”

“Well, I don’t, but if I did, one of my old crewmates would be him, and the captain is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father. It’s kind of sad, but they’re like my family, and they need me to do this.”

“You love your brother?” There is a note of surprise in his voice. “He must be very kind to you.”

“You kidding? He’s an asshole,” Peter exclaims, throwing up his hands in frustration, and not missing the wizard’s raised brow, “but if I had stayed… let’s just say things will go a lot worse for them. I’m not even sure they’ll survive this time. But Thor? Thor will be okay no matter what I do. So… if you don’t want to buy what I’m selling, then I’m sure I can find another fence, but if you’re looking to hurt Thor, then I’m out. Find someone else. Just a word of advice, though: I wouldn’t if I were you and valued my life. The man is invincible. He will find you, and he will kill you.”

Peter stubbornly crosses his arms, waiting for the wizard’s answer.

The man appears to consider it for a moment before agreeing, “I will purchase the crown jewels from you. One million credits. Final offer. Do we have a deal?” He holds out his hand.

Peter produces his credit stick to complete the transfer.

“The things we do for family,” the wizard mutters, mostly to himself.

Peter nods in agreement, resigned to his decision. When the device beeps to indicate completion of the transfer, he holds out the pouch containing Asgard’s crown jewels as agreed. The man grabs his wrist instead.

“But I will not take the advice of a petty-thief-turned-whore,” he says, his other hand brandishing a knife and slashing a wide arc across Peter’s chest. It glances off, tearing a hole in his shirt to reveal Asgardian chainmail beneath. Taking advantage of the wizard’s momentary surprise, Peter drops the jewels, twisting his wrist to break the man’s hold while kicking him backwards and away.

The wizard recovers quickly. Pouncing on Peter, they grapple for the upper hand, the man feinting with his knife, trying to stab Peter at every turn until they’re on the ground. His opponent looming over him, Peter puts all his strength into angling the blade away from his face. Driving it instead into the floor, he cuts his cheek on the knife’s edge as he quickly rises to flip the man over and kick him in the ribs. He crab crawls backwards then up, running out of the room to head towards the Milano and his escape.

Alone, the wizard’s wrinkles melt away, his nose straightening and cheeks sharpening into a younger, more-recognizable face. Loki collects the small satchel containing the crown jewels and pulls his poisoned knife from the floor, satisfied at the thin strip of blood adorning its blade.

The boy is mortal, and there is no antidote. So, though he had denied Loki the satisfaction of dealing him his death directly, Michael Knight is as good as dead.

Loki wipes the blade clean, thinking of Thor, shut up in his quarters since that morning and refusing all visitors. It’s an empty sort of vengeance, a hollow apology, for his brother’s broken spirit.

 

* * *

 

Stumbling into the Milano, Peter clutches his chest, his elevated heart-rate failing to abate even after the immediate danger has long passed.  A cold sweat coats his skin, and his vision darkens, turning fuzzy at the edges before rapidly spreading inward. He knows something is very wrong as he crawls towards the cockpit, knocking over various knick-knacks and an opened box of stale candy he had previously found under his seat. He can barely see anymore, his limp hands running over various buttons and levers until he finds what he’s searching for.

Taking three tries to pry open the plexiglass casing with weakening fingers, he finally slams down on the emergency beacon just before slipping out of consciousness.

 

* * *

 

Peter awakens the first time to the soft whine of fluorescent lighting and the low beep of his heart monitor. His entire body aches, dull but deep. He uses his leaden limbs to try to shift his position, gingerly turning to lessen the pain, but he finds no relief.

There’s a blue blur hovering over him, and firm but gentle hands hold him down. A gravelly voice rumbles out words he can’t quite parse. He stills, finding the contact familiar, comforting. Vaguely, he thinks the mysterious figure might be Thor, though the color is off, the hands too calloused, and the voice rough.

“M’sorry,” he tries to say, but he’s not quite sure it comes out correctly, considering his sluggish tongue feels much too large for his mouth.

There’s a soft shushing sound as Peter fades back into nothingness.

 

* * *

 

When Peter regains consciousness yet again, he recognizes the rusted ceiling of the Eclector, his vision sharpening to make out the details of the large bolts holding the hull airtight, the patchwork repairs, and the naked bulbs hanging from loose wires. He groans, waking up the lanky figure seated next to him, who rushes to his side.

“Welcome home, Pete. How ya feelin’?” Kraglin asks, helping him sit up.

“Like I got hit with an M-ship, and then they backed over me to finish the job,” he croaks out, his laughter raspy and painful in his chest.

“Yeah, well… that’s what chu git fer goin’ rogue.”

“Glad to see you, too. Asshole,” Peter grouses. He tries to pull on the lapels of his jacket, but finds them missing. He looks at his minimally-clothed arms, panic rising. “Where’s my coat? Got something in the pockets. Something important.”

“Put it away in yer footlocker fer safe-keepin’, but if yer talkin’ about yer credit stick, Cap’n already confiscated that,” Kraglin replies, frowning. He looks like he wants to say more but stops himself out of respect for Peter’s weakened constitution. If he’s going to chew out the kid, he wants him to be well enough to fully appreciate it.

“Told him I could do it,” Peter wheezes.

“Don’t push yer luck, Quill,” Kraglin mutters darkly, his hand on the younger man’s arm tightening until Peter winces. He relents, patting the spot in contrition.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Doc clears Peter for regular duty, having declared the boy fully recovered physically. Emotionally, it is an entirely different matter.

In the aftermath, Peter becomes moody, prone to periods of melancholic silence punctuated by flare-ups of ill-temper. The crew gives him some leeway in consideration of how he successfully saved their asses with one of the largest solo pay-outs they had had in years, but their already-limited patience runs thin until one day not too long after, Peter fails to show up to his post, having declined to emerge from bed at all that morning.

“You want I should drag his sorry ass out?” Kraglin asks Yondu, already eyeing the exit out the Bridge.

“Naw, I’ll deal with it.” Yondu’s tone is steely, his face grim and merciless. The crew is certain the insubordinate brat will be in for another stint in medbay after Cap’n is done with him.

When the door to crew’s quarters slides open revealing Yondu on the other side, Peter rolls over to face away from the encroaching light. “I’m sick. Go away,” he calls out over his shoulder, his hand flapping him away.

“Ain’t what Doc said,” Yondu states flatly as he approaches the cot, barely resisting the urge to strip it and Peter of his blankets. _One million credits,_ he has to remind himself. The boy did good. He had earned a little leniency, but like a fool, he was quickly spending it all in one place.

Peter curls into himself. “Well, how would he know? Did he even go to medical school?” he grumbles, despondently.

“Who needs school when ya got bonafide experience? He stitched up Wretch real good. You can hardly tell his throat was slit the one time.”

“You can totally tell.” Doc had worked on most of the Ravagers, and though he was proficient enough on the life-saving side of providing emergency medicine on a shoe-string budget, aesthetics were clearly not his forte.

Yondu recognizes the signs: the depression, the unexplained absences, the near-suicidal levels of back-talk… something had happened, something that didn’t leave a physical mark.

“Ya know, you never did tell me what ‘xactly went down on Asgard. You seemed so ready to stay, then we git an emergency beacon an’ find ya collapsed at the nav.”

Peter doesn’t respond to that, so Yondu starts with the worst-case scenario. “Someone touch you then tried to cover it up?” He can feel his nails biting into his own arm as his fingers tense into claws. He may have to murder some gods today.

“What? No! Of course not,” Peter protests, rounding on him. “Is that what you think happened?” He rubs his face in annoyance as Yondu feels a wave of relief.

_Oh thank fuck!_

“I mean… Stars, man. It’s not _that_ serious. What happened is I did the stupid job, like a real Ravager, and I brought in a shit-ton of credits,” Peter replies, his tone edged with anger. “Now leave me alone. I don’t want to talk about it.”

_Well, if it’s not that…_

“Good. But if this is ‘bout some broad you left behind, an’ you was wantin’ to talk about it, I would tell ya to buck up, an’ don’t let no one see ya down ‘less yer anglin’ fer a kick to the ribs,” he says.

Peter seems to tense up at that. “Of course, Rule #1: Never get emotionally involved with a mark.”

“Damn straight.”

“Do anything for a credit,” Peter continues, his voice growing high. “Doesn’t matter if you’ve never done anything like it before,” he chokes up, “or if maybe… maybe they were real sweet, and you feel like shit for doing them dirty like that.”

“…Did somethin’ happen back on Asgard?” Yondu repeats, prodding his boy once more. Whatever had happened was clearly eating at Peter, and the quicker he gets it out, the faster he can get over it and fall back in line.

“Nope.”

“You sure about that, son?” he tries again.

“Nothing you’d want to hear,” Peter murmurs.

“You might be surprised.” Yondu grunts as he sits down at the end of the bed, below the boy’s curled-up legs. “You know, I hear tell Asgardian women are dazzlin’ goddesses. Soft, supple, eternally young… Wouldn’t right blame ya if you lost yer heart to some purty li’l slip o’ a thing what batted her eyes at chu.”

“…I don’t want to talk about it,” he replies sullenly.

“She must’a been quite the looker to git yer drawers in a twist. She want chu to stay, son?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about him!” Peter shouts, rising to stare directly at Yondu.

_Him._

Well, that’s… surprising.

Yondu had thought he had Peter’s preferences figured out, but…

Peter looks embarrassed at the revelation. He clamps his mouth shut once again then lies back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin once again. He tenses up, bracing for pain. Peter is a Ravager, and Ravagers aren’t allowed the luxury of sentiment, romantic or otherwise.

Instead, Yondu pats his leg.

“Alright… alright, Quill. Yer not in the mood fer talkin’,” he says. “That’s fine, but here’s what’s gonna happen. I git that yer hurtin’, so I’m goin’a let that li’l outburst slide, but I need chu ta keep it under wraps in front o’ the men. Take the rest o’ today an’ the next two to git yer shit in order. I’ll tell ‘em yer sick. Came down with some fancy-pants Asgardian flu or some shit. Need’a quarantine fer all our sakes.”

Peter is quiet, then: “…Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” Yondu tells him, rising from the bed. “This is a one-time deal, since yer new to this type o’ shit.”

 _Love?_ Peter thinks.

“Whoring?” is what he says.

Yondu crosses his arms, gazing down at his boy. “I prefer the term subterfuge. You just got in a li’l too deep this time, but we’s Ravagers, Quill. We don’t git attached, so best git used to it.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Fake it ‘til you do, son.”

Peter takes note of Yondu’s advice. Having sexual partners is fine; in retrospect, he’d made it this far barely scathed, able to bounce back from disappointment in a matter of days, but if love – real reciprocal love – hurts this much, he’d rather do without it, at least for the time being.

Besides, if he’s being honest, he doubts he’s capable of loving anyone ever again with all the certainty of youth and limited experience.

 

* * *

 

The crew avoids Peter like the plague. _He’s highly contagious,_ he imagines Yondu telling them. _Scabrous an’ leaking fluids from ev’rywhere, an’ I mean **everywhere**. I had’a git m’ shots just sharin’ the same air with him fer a spell._ Peter doesn’t care what Yondu had to say, how utterly disgusting he made Peter’s condition seem, as long as the men left him alone.

Apparently, Kraglin didn’t get the memo.

He had broken Peter’s quarantine a day later, during a slow shift when no one could see him enter. “You done feeling sorry for yerself yet?” he asks, standing on the far side of the room, in case he mis-read the situation.

“Why do you always have to be such a dick about everything?” Peter grouses, turning over to face him.

Kraglin approaches his bedside. “In my nature, I guess. You gonna answer the question?”

“No.”

“No, you ain’t done, or no, you ain’t gonna answer.”

“Either. Both,” Peter replies, turning back to burrow under the covers. “When did you get so fucking pedantic?”

Kraglin whistles low at that, hands in his pockets, rocking heel-to-toe and back. “An’ when did you start using five-credit words, Mr. Dick-Tionary? Those Asgardians sure did a number on you. Got chu talkin’ all fancy an’ sighin’ an’ fallin’ all o’er cushions ‘cause of a li’l heartbreak like one o’ them ladies in those trashy romances Cap’n don’t read on the sly.”

“…Yondu told you?”

“Not in so many words, but you an’ me, we did sort’a grow up together, an’ I can recognize a signature Quill sulk a klick away. I ain’t stupid,” Kraglin shrugs. “I told chu all that music an’ love stuff was gonna rot yer brain.”

“ _You’re_ going to lecture _me_ about not falling in love,” Peter groans, lifting his head out from under the covers to see Kraglin flipping him off. “This is the thanks I get for coming back with a million credits and saving your asses. You’re welcome, by the way. Now we can afford to keep the engines running.”

“It ain’t about the money.” Kraglin’s voice is stiff, flat.

Peter’s eyes boggle at that. “Are you sure you’re not the one who’s heartsick?”

“You really upset Cap’n with that li’l stunt, ya know that?”

“Fine! Next time, I won’t bother coming back,” Peter pledges, rather mutinously. “Next time, I’ll just take the money and run!”

Kraglin’s eyes narrow at that. “There won’t be a next time, Pete. You gotta swear.”

“I’m not making any promises,” he says rebelliously.

That sets off the older man. He pulls off Peter’s blankets, throwing them in a heap to the floor. Peter flips over, looking betrayed, but before he can say anything, Kraglin reprimands him. “You know Cap’n damn near killed Horuz when he found you missin’? He thought they ate chu. An’ when you call up all alive an’ sayin’ you ain’t comin’ home, he wanted to fly straight into Asgard, guns a-blazin’, to git chu. I had’a convince him not to go on that stars-damned suicide mission by sayin’ it would blow whatever cover you had come up with. Told him to hang back an’ let chu do yer thing.” he runs his fingers through his mohawk, tugging at the short hairs. “Stars, Pete! You know how that would’a looked to the men? They were half-starved an’ worn down as it is. Cap’n can’t do no favorites; no matter who it is.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that, so he grumbles, “Well, no one asked him to.”

“That’s unfair.”

“Okay, you’re right. I get it now,” he relents sarcastically. “So can you go already?”

Kraglin points at Peter’s ever-present Walkman clipped to his pants, realizing belatedly that Peter hadn’t even been listening to it when he walked into the room. “That thing have any charge left?”

Peter shrugs, lying back down on the bed, sans cover, and turning away from him.

Kraglin sighs audibly, and Peter feels the mattress dip as the other man pulls Peter back to rest in the curve of his front. He pulls the discarded blanket over both of them.

“Kraglin?” Peter whispers, uncertain.

“Shut up,” Kraglin cuts him off harshly. “You tell anyone about this, an’ I will straight up murder you. If someone walks in on us right now, we was tryin’a have sex. I wanted to see if you picked up any new tricks from the ancients.” He lays an arm casually across Peter’s waist. “You didn’t,” he deadpans.

Despite himself, Peter laughs brokenly at the raunchy joke. “Good one, Kraglin.”

“Yeah, ya like that? Thought chu would, you sick fuck.”

Peter’s laughter dies down into heavy silence, then: “I can’t ever go back. I’m never going to see them again.” His voice cracks.

“It’s alright, Petey. Yer alright.” The arm around him tightens, trying to hold Peter close, to hold him together.

“Did I really make a mistake coming back?”

Kraglin thinks about it before answering. “I can’t speak to what chu left, but Cap’n? He tries to hide it, but he really cares about us, about you. Not many people can say that ‘bout their cap’n’s. Hell, not everyone can say that ‘bout their real families,” he pauses for a moment. “The Eclector’s our home, an’ I can’t right think of another place I’d rather be.”

“…Thanks, Kraglin.”

“Don’t mention it, Pete.”

 

* * *

 

Kraglin may have meant it as a joke, but it quickly becomes apparent that Peter _had_ learned a thing or two from his stint in Asgard.

“Alright, Quill. ‘Cause ya did so well on yer last mission, you can have any o’ ‘em ya want, in any number. On me,” Yondu had proposed, indicating a wide variety of prostitutes of various sexes at their next brothel. It’s a generous offer, though considering Peter had earned the money to begin with, it could be argued that Yondu’s reward is less charitable than it appeared to be at face-value.

Peter stares a bit too hard at a blonde male prostitute at the end. He’s tall, muscular, and his bronze skin is oiled to a shine in the low light. In his heartbreak, he ponders whether the similarity will be a comfort or a curse.

Yondu follows his eye-line. “See somethin’ ya like?”

“…Yeah,” Peter says, but he selects the buxom female Krylorian next to his desired target.

“Ya sure ‘bout that, son?” Yondu prods, suggesting, “You can git two.”

“Alright, if you insist…” Peter points at another random woman, Xandarian this time.

“Okay, you go on up to yer reserved room, an’ I’ll have the madame send in yer selections, yeah?” He points him towards the stairs, and pats him on the shoulders. “Room 213.”

Peter answers the door later to find the Krylorian woman. Alone.

 _Cheap bastard,_ he thinks, but he steps aside to let her in. However, when he moves to close the door behind her, it stops prematurely. Peter looks back to find the blonde man he had been eyeing smiling at him.

“Room for one more?” he asks, a coy smile alighting his features.

Peter bites his bottom lip then steps to one side to make way yet again.

 

* * *

 

“Had fun, Quill?” Yondu asks hours later when the boy enters the common room, hair mussed and clothing slightly askew.

Peter nods, looking a touch sheepish when the Krylorian steps up behind him, coming in close to snake an arm around his waist.

“I had a good time, Peter. You be sure to come back again and ask for Ygreet, okay baby?” she gives him a chaste kiss on the cheek, free of charge, before sashaying away, looking over her shoulder to see if he is watching her go.

He is.

Yondu cracks a smile. “Hey Quill, she remembered yer name this time.”

“Yeah, I–”

Just then, the male prostitute walks up, slapping Peter on the ass. Peter jumps a bit at that, and when he turns to look up at him, the man smiles and gives him a wink. “Don’t be a stranger, Star-Lord.”

“An’ you even got ‘em to use yer stupid outlaw name, too,” Yondu remarks, once the man had walked away.

“It’s not stupid!” Peter protests, but Yondu simply smiles, assured he had engineered the perfect confidence-booster for Quill in the wake of his romantic misadventures. Sure, they were prostitutes who had been paid to tell Peter how amazing he was as a lover, but Yondu figures it was worth it to see a return of that spring in the boy’s step.

He never expected Peter to be able to replicate that success in a non-transactional setting.

Two weeks later, they had made port in Xander for a routine client meet-up and a drink when he had thoughtlessly entered the Milano to bring the boy a box of his favorite candy, Gear Shift, and an upgrade to the battery pack for his Walkman.

There’s a feminine scream and tumble of bodies over the table as the strange woman steals their single sheet to wrap around her nude body, leaving Peter to hide his genitals behind cupped palms.

“Stars, Yondu! You couldn’t have knocked first!” Peter exclaims, quickly moving behind a chair to conceal more of his body from his mentor’s purview.

Yondu had taken one look, put the candy and batteries on the floor by his feet, and walked out of there, shouting over his shoulder, “Deadbolt protocols exist on your door, Quill. Learn how to use ‘em!”

That hadn’t been the last time Yondu had caught the kid with his pants down. It seemed to happen almost every time they docked, and the lays Peter could pull weren’t even half-bad-looking. Even the crew took notice and began to vocalize how they could use Quill’s newfound sexual prowess to the Eclector’s advantage.

“There’s another job posted that requires a certain… finesse,” Vorker had commented, more delicately than he would have had it not concerned the Captain’s boy. He didn’t fancy losing another eye.

“What he’s tryin' to say is we could use a man to seduce a mark to git access to her bedroom, an’ we think this’d be the perfect job fer us,” Half-Nut had said, having fewer qualms about losing the other half of his scalp.

From the Captain’s chair on the Bridge, Yondu watches Peter’s back becomes a touch more rigid before his shoulders slump.

 _Whoring?_ Peter’s voice whispers in his memories.

 _Subterfuge,_ Yondu had corrected him.

Yondu dusts off his chest and straightens out the lapels of his coat. “I see what yer sayin’. This looks like a job fer yer ol’ Cap’n. It’s been a while since I ran one o’ these operations, but I’m game.”

Vorker and Half-Nut nervously regard their ruthless leader. He’s uncouth, older, wrinkled with more visible scars than most people would prefer and even more hidden if the stories are true. Plus, they had it on good authority (and not an insignificant amount of personal observation) that most of his sexual partners were paid to touch his ugly hide.

Half-Nut clears his throat before hazarding a response, “Uh Cap’n… you sure ‘bout that?”

“Did I stutter?”

“No, it’s just…”

“Just what? Women love a bad boy,” Yondu points out, grinning wide to reveal his crooked, broken teeth, the noxious scent of severe halitosis wafting over his compatriots.

Vorker tries to be diplomatic. “Well, that may be true, but don’t chu think lover-boy there should take a crack at it.” He hooks a thumb over at Peter. “He’s gotten purty good at sweet-talkin’ the ladies an’ all.”

Peter freezes, awaiting Yondu’s agreement with weary resignation.

Yondu frowns, his expression contemptuous and dangerous. He hadn’t kidnapped and ~~raised~~ trained the boy just to later coerce him into sex he didn't want.

“You sayin’ I’m ugly?” he challenges the hapless crewmen.

“No! No, I–”

“Then it’s settled,” Yondu says, tapping his nails in a measured beat against his console and musing, “I’m gonna need to dig out my good underwears fer this mission. You can’t proper seduce a woman in yer everyday pair.”


	10. Our Last Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter betrayed Thor. In the present, Thor wants to understand why.

**Present Day**

It had been an accident, or so Peter would later claim. He was only trying to be helpful.

“Thor, could you please pull down the weapons compactor?” Gamora had asked, her arms already overburdened with a small arsenal.

“Why yes of course, Lady Gamora,” Thor had stepped up to assist, but Peter quickened his pace, bumping Thor out of the way to complete Gamora’s request on his behalf.

“I got it,” he had volunteered.

“Peter, I really think Thor should get it,” she had advised. “The door is very heavy, and Groot was the last one to pack it. You remember what happened two weeks ago, right?”

Last time, the impatient young tree had shoveled everything inside, tying it closed with his wooden feelers, and when Drax had opened it, he narrowly escaped a veritable avalanche of guns, swords, and the like.

“Nonsense,” Peter had said, climbing a step ladder to try to jiggle the ceiling hatch open. There had been no feelers strapping it shut this time, but the door appeared to be jammed. He pulls at the circular locking mechanism, grunting: “We managed just fine before without Thor. Let me just–“

But the hatch had dislodged with a loud screech, spilling out a large plasma canon, and when he had tried to catch the unwieldy thing mid-fall, Peter’s knees and back had buckled, and he lost his balance. Tumbling down, he had hit his head hard on a hanging awning, and both he and the canon dropped like a stone. Thor had caught them both.

“Peter!” Gamora had exclaimed.

Now, he lay on a cot in medbay, limp and unresponsive, with Gamora at his side.

Thor enters carrying two yaro roots, one each for Gamora and himself. She thanks him but doesn’t touch her’s.

Thor takes a crunchy bite, chewing thoughtfully before inquiring: “Does Peter Quill take on more than he can handle often?”

“He means well, but sometimes, he takes unnecessary risks…” _Usually when he wants to prove a point._

Thor nods at that, gazing upon the man’s slack face. He’s silent for a beat, then: “Suppose Peter were to vanish… disappear into the void without a trace,” he asks, his tone suspiciously casual. “What would the rest of you do?”

Gamora gives him a queer look. “Peter wouldn’t.”

“But if he did?” Thor persists, gently.

She frowns at the insinuation, looking upon their most-recent companion with thinned eyes. Perhaps Peter had a point; they knew very little about Thor.

“I suppose I would have to avenge him.” She takes out a knife, expertly twisting it against the yaro root to carve off a piece. "I guess I would start with the fingernails, work my way up the arms... until I got to the face. There's a lot of nerve endings there... very sensitive. I would leave the tongue for last." She bites the yaro root directly off the edge of the blade. It's underripe; she doesn't care.

“And how are your injuries coming along?” she asks, as she cuts off another piece, her knife running fluid through the tough flesh. “Healing, I hope. Perhaps you will even be strong enough to leave soon and track down Thanos, or find the remnants of your people.”

Thor can take a hint. He knows when he has worn out his welcome. “Perhaps so, Lady Gamora.”

“Good. Safe travels, then,” she says, but her icy tone undercuts her words. He may be the God of Thunder, but Gamora chooses Peter – will always choose Peter. Every time.

“And to you as well.”

 

* * *

 

Peter awakens soon after and undergoes Rocket’s concussion protocol under Gamora’s oversight.

“Alright Quill, what’s two and two?” Rocket asks, shining a light into his eyes to check contraction response.

“Four,” Peter answers. “Can you stop that? I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. And what’s the name of the ship we’re on?”

“Benatar.”

“And who’s the Captain?”

“Me.”

“Wrong answer.”

“No, it’s not,” Peter snips, swatting Rocket’s pen light away.

Gamora crosses her arms. “Rocket, you should take this more seriously.”

“I am! But it’s a little difficult to compare his cognitive function to baseline, considering he was brain damaged before the accident,” Rocket explains.

“Really, Rocket?” she says, clearly exasperated as Peter gives his makeshift medic a dirty look.

“Okay, I’m going to test your short term memory. I will read a list of words, and when I’m done, repeat back as many as you can remember, starting with the most recent and going backwards, okay?” he continues. Peter warily nods his assent before he clears his throat to begin: “Pilot. Better. The. Are. You.”

“Hey!”

Rocket cracks a smile. “Relax, won’t you? You’re cleared, and you’re welcome.”

Peter had gone into the kitchen after, looking for a drink to wash down some light painkillers, only to find Thor already there. Thor acknowledges his presence with a slight tip of his head. He reaches for a beer but thinking better of it, grabs a mug instead.

“That’s my favorite mug, but by all means, help yourself,” Peter remarks sarcastically, rolling his eyes at the other man. Thor had already helped himself to his food, his crew’s goodwill, and Gamora’s attention.

“I am grateful for your hospitality. Your people are too kind to aid a wounded traveler such as myself,” Thor replies, heading towards the coffee machine.

Peter does little to mask his displeasure. “Well, how could they resist–” He deepens his voice in mock baritone, imitating Thor’s grandiose way of speaking: “The mighty Thor Odinson, God of Thunder.”

“It is not unheard of, Michael Knight, Lord of Stars,” Thor replies off-handedly. He pours himself a cup of coffee, replacing the kettle back on the electric warmer.

Peter freezes, turning to face a knowing Thor as the man tips the mug to his lips without breaking eye contact.

“…Who? The name’s Quill. Peter Quill. Remember?” he tries to play dumb, but by the serious expression on his ex-lover’s face, he is not successful. “No really, you have the wrong guy. I just have one of those faces…”

Thor’s tone is neutral, as if discussing the weather instead of old wounds. “You’re older than I remember.” He leans back against the counter and takes another sip.

It’s pointless to deny it.

“Well, not all of us have a five-thousand year life span. It was a few months like twenty years ago. That’s a flash in the pan for someone like you.” Peter crosses his arms and mirrors Thor’s carefully-casual recline against the opposing side. He’s glad for the table between them. Rocket had it bolted to the floor to prevent pitching and sliding during emergency evasive maneuvers. Not that any type of reinforcement would prevent Thor from flipping stationary furniture to get to him, but the effort to do so will allow Peter precious time to get a shot off, blinding the man’s remaining eye. Slowly, he drops his hands to rest against the side, loosely palming the edge of the counter to reduce the time and distance needed to draw his blaster.

Thor stays put. “Don’t presume to tell me how to feel about that period of my life. It was four months only a short eighteen years ago.”

“Whoa, someone kept track. I guess I should be flattered.”

“It has not been so long for the memories to lose their edge.”

“Maybe for you, but eighteen years is practically half my life. I _am_ older now. Things are different; I’m different.” Peter shrugs. “Look, I don’t do that grifting thing anymore. I help people. So, I’m asking you nicely: Please don’t fuck this up for me.”

Downing the rest of his coffee, Thor places the mug behind him. “How? By informing your _friends_ you intend to do them harm?” he muses. “I have yet to uncover the target of your confidence trick as this craft appears to hold nothing of value–”

“Oh I wouldn’t say nothing. There’s a lot of sentimental value in the old girl. Why, Groot shed his first leaves right over there, and Gamora and I christened the… But no. I meant by replacing me. My crew, the Guardians, they’re my family, okay? And Gamora? She’s it for me, man.” His fingers massaging his temple, Peter exhales slow and audible, gathering his thoughts to present the situation from Thor’s point of view. Perhaps he can work the sympathy angle. “Look, I know it’s tempting. You’ve just lost everything: your own family, your throne, your people, and then we pick you up–”

“Run me over,” Thor corrects him.

“We pick you up, and you’re thinking you’ve found a new crew, a new calling, and screwing me over is just the cherry on top. You’re thinking maybe you can start over with people who already like and accept you, and become king of this ragtag group of surprisingly competent rejects and one super hot former assassin–”

“I didn’t know you killed people.”

“Okay, one: I was obviously talking about Gamora. Stop trying to derail the conversation with charm; that’s my schtick,” Peter says firmly, trying to impress upon Thor the gravity of what he is doing…

“And two: Thank you.” But he has always been a slut for compliments, especially with all the recent derogatory remarks lobbed at his physique. “Anyways, the point is: they’re mine, and you can’t have them.”

“It is not my intention to replace you in their hearts as their leader, particularly since your leader is clearly the far more intelligent rabbit–”

“Hey!”

“And a lot has changed since the halcyon days of our acquaintanceship,” Thor continues uninterrupted. “You may recall a brash young prince all too eager to assume the throne, but I no longer desire to be King of Asgard, though I have been forced as of late to assume that heavy mantle.”

Peter is not buying it. “What I recall is you having a loving family, a consistently full belly, and a future, while appreciating none of it. You never knew how good you had it.”

“And there is your problem. You begrudged me my good fortune in years past and now, in your abject paranoia, imagine I have designs to acquire the life you have built for yourself in the interim,” Thor raises his voice ever so slightly. He had suffered greatly in recent days, having lost nearly everything in short order. He did not need any reminders. “In truth, I require only one thing: stopping Thanos, which is where your team’s and my desires converge. Make no mistake; I am not so envious as you.”

As usual, Peter misses the point. “I am _not_ envious.”

“I should have seen it with how you fawned over my mother, following her like a lost baby duckling,” Thor says wistfully.

“I did _not_. She was just really nice to me, and I’m pretty sure she was the one that kept your brother from stabbing me on a daily basis.”

“She always did have a soft spot for delicate things,” he allows.

“Not that delicate, but yeah… I’m really sorry to hear she passed, and I’m not just saying that. It’s always hard losing a parent, especially a mother, and she was a good woman. One of the best I’ve known.” Peter actually sounds sincere.

“And yet you betrayed us.”

“It was more complicated than that.”

Thor regards his ex-lover, fingers tapping the counter in thought, before speaking again. “In the aftermath of your treachery, I spent a long time puzzling over how our love had soured, how you could have done such a thing. I treated you fairly and with respect as equals, disregarding your relatively humble station. I thought I had been good to you.”

“You were,” Peter agrees.

“But having been brought so low, I can sympathize with your earlier actions. When a man has lost everything, he will stop at nothing to reclaim what little semblance of purpose he once had.” Thor pauses a beat. “So tell me: did my father’s crown jewels bring you the acceptance and fortune you sought back then?”

_Was it worth it?_

“No… Yes? I don’t know… but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about how it all went down. I didn’t realize our time together meant so much to you.” It was at once heartening and devastating to know Thor hadn’t forgotten him, that their love had been worth remembering despite its brevity.

“Well, it was quite a shock that it had meant so little to you, Lord of Stars.”

“It wasn’t… it didn’t mean nothing,” Peter tries to clarify before becoming more resolute. “I had a job to do, and I did it. I didn’t feel great about it, and there were times I wish I took you up on your offer, but be honest: Would you have still wanted my wrinkly ass at age seventy while you were still in your chiseled prime? I mean… Stars, yeah you’re looking a little rough these days, but you’ve barely aged since I last saw you, while I… I look older than you now. Imagine the picture the two of us would have made thirty, forty, even fifty years from now if I even lasted that long.”

“Nothing would have changed. I would have kept my promise to you,” Thor states with a conviction that surprises Peter.

_Still–_

“As an _obligation_. And that’s the last thing I would want for either of us.”

“I would have taken care of you for the rest of your life. As I had sworn to you, you would have wanted for nothing that was in my power to provide.”

“Yeah. For the rest of _my_ life. That’s the problem right there,” Peter points out, struggling to explain mortality to a near-ageless being such as Thor. “I would have grown old alone while you waited for me to die so you can finally move on with a clear conscience to the next young thing with a full head of hair and the stamina to keep up with your 1500 years young libido. Well, joke’s on you. Did you know I was immortal during that time?”

Thor looks surprised. “…Was?”

“Long story short: I had to give it up to save the galaxy a few years back, so… you’re welcome. Not that I would have wanted to live in a universe with just me and the only other immortal asshole who murdered my mom and happened to be my father–”

“You must have hit your head harder than I had feared,” Thor murmurs, stepping around the table to draw in closer to Peter to examine the evenness of his pupils. The man is clearly concussed.

Peter waves off his concern. “But all that’s beside the point. The hard truth is at the time, I would have had to give you everything I had, dedicated my entire life to you, and you would have grown to resent me for it,” he concludes.

Thor disagrees. “I would have mourned your early passing as a bright light gone too soon from this world. Do not project your own feelings of inadequacy and fickleness onto me.”

“Tell me how I’m wrong then.”

“These scenarios of which you speak are conjectures born of fear and regret. Fear that doubted we could have been good together, a love for the ages, and regret that you did not even attempt to see it through out of cowardice.”

“Cowardice? Right…” Peter chuckles, hands on his waist, head tilted down to watch his boot scraping against the metal floor. “Well, for your information, I _have_ no regrets. I’m doing better now – I am better – with the Guardians, with Gamora, before you came along and threw a wrench into the whole operation.”

“Do you imagine your familial bonds so precarious as to be easily severed by an unknown usurper such as myself?” Thor asks cryptically.

It’s a decent question. Instead of worrying about the actions of their transient guest, shouldn’t he place more faith in the Guardians themselves, in their loyalty? Didn’t he trust them – trust Gamora – not to abandon him for a veritable stranger?

Then again, it is Thor.

“Stars, do I have to spell it out. You’re not just some Johnny-come-lately, all right? You’re Thor, King of Asgard and literal God of Thunder. Granted I’m no slouch – not to brag, but I’ve been around the Galaxy a time or two since we last tangoed in an Asgardian broom closet, and I’ve logged an impressive number of notches on my bedpost – but you? You can charm the pants off a Gefjun virgin with–” Peter waves his hand in a circular motion to indicate Thor’s everything, encompassing his face and body, “–all that going on. You can have anyone. Just… please, man, if you ever cared about me at all, please don’t fuck with my team. I’ve finally found a real family, and… I love her, Thor. I love her, and I can’t lose her, especially to you. It will break me, and I won’t recover this time.”

“This time?” Thor zeroes in on Peter’s accidental revelation.

“…That’s just a Terran expression,” he tries to cover.

“I am familiar with Earth terminology, and I believe that implies an earlier time.”

“I haven’t been back to Earth in decades. I’m a bit rusty on the lingo,” Peter insists.

“…That phrase is not even specific to Earth.”

“I don’t think you understand I misspoke, simple as that. I didn’t mean… that is to say–”

“Silence.” Thor commands, shortly before closing the distance between them and kissing Peter speechless. He breaks apart not too long after, touching his forehead to Peter’s.

“Goodbye, Michael Knight, Lord of Stars,” he murmurs, before stepping away and exiting the room.

_Damn it. Why does he always have to be so good at that?_

 

* * *

 

When Thor returns to the Infirmary, Gamora is there, with a bowl of broth that has already cooled to lukewarm in his absence. “I got you some soup,” she tells him stiffly, handing him the bowl, “before you head out.”

“Thank you, Lady Gamora,” Thor replies. “I can see why he favors you so.”

Gamora gives him an odd look but doesn’t comment when he follows her out to the bridge where Peter and the other Guardians are already assembled.

 

* * *

 

Peter thinks they have come to an agreement, an understanding of sorts, which is why he feels so betrayed when Thor tries to ingratiate himself to Gamora yet again.

In all fairness, it hadn’t exactly been the man’s fault. He had been finishing off his soup, contemplating his next move while huddled cozy under a blanket when Drax had asked how Thanos had managed to defeat Thor and murder half his people. Thanos is strong, sure, but Thor is a genuine god among men.

_Infinity stones,_ he had answered. Thanos already had a couple and was tracking down the remaining four.

That changes everything for Gamora.

“If he gets all six infinity stones, he can do it with the snap of his fingers like this,” she explains, snapping her own for emphasis.

“You seem to know a great deal about Thanos.” Thor stirs his spoon through his broth.

“Gamora is the daughter of Thanos,” Drax says. In the two days Thor had spent on the Benatar in her company, it had never come up.

Gamora dips her head in shame of her adoptive father’s crimes and her earlier complicity. She will never be able to undo her sordid past, to wipe the slate clean.

“Your father killed my brother,” Thor’s voice is raw and angry as he stands, stalking towards her.

“Oh boy,” Peter recalls the brothers had been close. This could be bad, worse than when he had thought Thor would simply try to seduce Gamora away from him. “Stepfather, technically, and she hates him as much as you do.”

Instead, he grasps her shoulder, his voice softening. “Families can be tough,” he says. “Before my father died, he told me that I had a half-sister that he imprisoned in Hell. And then she returned home and stabbed me in the eye, so I had to kill her.”

Peter fumes as he watches Thor’s hand massage Gamora’s shoulder in sympathetic comfort.

“That is life though, isn’t it, I guess,” he rambles, looking a touch too vulnerable. “Goes round and round and… I feel your pain.”

_That smooth bastard._

Peter steps between them, separating the two, “I feel your pain as well, because – I mean it’s not a competition, but I’ve been through a lot.”

Thor slurps his soup, looking upon the other man with what Peter in his paranoia thinks is a knowing glance.

_He knows exactly what he’s doing_.

“My father killed my mother, and then I had to kill my father,” he says, trying to one-up Thor. “That was hard. Probably even harder than having to kill a sister. Plus, I… came out with both my eyes, which was–” It’s a cheap shot, but all’s fair in love and war.

His gaze slips towards Thor, noting the man is no longer paying attention to him.

“I need a hammer, not a spoon,” Thor comments, suddenly manic and not just a little agitated, with both his attention and patience shortened to a nub. He stalks past Peter to take their pod without even asking permission.

For his part, Peter has had enough. He tried to be nice. He tried to be understanding, and now Thor is brazenly stealing from him, from them all. This will not stand.

Peter clears his throat. “You will not be taking our pod today, sir.”

As per usual, his team fails to back him up, commenting on his voice, the timber of which he had _not_ modulated in the slightest.

Thor is similarly unamused, “Are you mocking me?”

“Are you mocking me?” Peter repeats, (not) imitating the other man.

“Stop it. You just… you did it again.”

Gamora interrupts their trivial spat. Whatever is going on between the two of them pales in importance to Thanos’s ultimate plan to decimate half of all life.

Thanos is heading for Knowhere, but Thor aims to go to Nidavellir instead, to speak with the legendary elves who forged Mjolnir millennia ago. This piques Rocket’s interest, who immediately sides with Thor, and at Gamora’s protest of their destination, he suggests they split up, him and Groot going with Thor while the rest go to Knowhere to face Thanos and collect the Reality Stone.

As Thor straps into the pod, Rocket turns to follow him.

“Rocket, wait…” Peter stops him. “Take care of yourself and Groot. It could get dicey out there.”

“…Right back at you.”

Peter wavers for a moment, then: “And… watch out for the big guy, too. He’s lost a lot, and he can be… reckless,” he adds.

“Don’t know why you care, but as your _Captain_ , I’m sure I can look after a couple of idiots, no sweat,” Rocket says before calling out, “Come on, Groot.”

Rocket locks in the coordinates, but just before the windshield slides shut and the pod disengages, Thor nods his head to acknowledge the rest of the Guardians, his lone eye settling on Peter: “I bid you farewell and good luck, morons.”

Peter’s face morphs into one of annoyed disapproval. _The bastard just had to get in the last word._

Then, with a pull of a level, they are gone.

Walking up to the porthole window, Peter leans his head against his arm held up to frame the glass, watching the flame of the pod’s engines zip away.

Gamora joins him, threading her arm around his waist. “I’m glad he left. You were right to be concerned,” she tells him. “He had been floating the idea of making you disappear to gauge my reaction.”

“You misunderstood him,” Peter informs her after a tense moment. He shakes his head. “Thor never wanted me dead.”

“He asked what the rest of us would do if you were to ‘disappear.’ Where I’m from, that qualifies as a threat,” she replies flatly.

Peter hesitates yet again before divulging, “…I should have told you earlier, but Thor and I? We used to… date.” Still gazing out the window, he lightly raps his knuckles against his forehead twice then tilts his head to face Gamora and gauge her reaction.

“…What?”

He brings his arms down to cross them as he leans against the hull, curled slightly into himself. “It was eighteen years ago as part of a job – which I haven’t done in ages,” he emphasizes, lest she think him a complete cad. “I mean, flirting with a desk clerk for a little information is one thing, but what I did to Thor… yeah, it wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair. Anyways, I sort of broke his heart, and I was concerned he’d try to go through you guys – especially you – to take his revenge somehow.”

Gamora looks frantic, suddenly worried, as she grasps his arm, intending to manhandle him towards the pilot’s chair. “Peter, he just left with Rocket and Groot. What if–”

Peter doesn’t budge. “He’s not going to do anything. We talked it out. He thought the whole Guardians thing was just another con on my end and was worried about you all. He’s actually a real sweet guy once you get to know him… when he’s not trying to charm the pants off everyone and everything around him. I swear, it’s like second nature to that guy. Anyways, the end of our thing was… difficult for me, too,” he admits, eyes averted once again out the window towards the shrinking pod. It is true he is happy with Gamora, with the Guardians, and he wouldn’t change it for anything, but sometimes, even still, he wonders–

“You loved him.”

Peter doesn’t have to answer. Gamora can tell from the pained expression that he had. Once. And maybe a little still.

“What was it like?” Drax interrupts from the sidelines as both turn to face him with surprise, having forgotten he was still in the room. “He seems like a cuddler.”

“ _Dude._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have come to the end of the fic. I had a lot of fun writing this one, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as well. So if you did, please drop me a comment to let me know.


End file.
